


Phoenix Rising

by ShirleyAnn66



Category: Broadchurch
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-18
Updated: 2016-01-21
Packaged: 2018-04-15 10:49:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 68,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4603926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShirleyAnn66/pseuds/ShirleyAnn66
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hardy and Miller solved the Sandbrook case and it's all over.  Only life has a funny habit of getting in the way while you're making other plans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Broadchurch, Alec Hardy or Ellie Miller. I'm just taking them out to play. I'm going to spin them round and turn them upside down, and then return them, safe and sound although maybe a little dizzy, to their rightful owners (ITV, David Tennant and Olivia Colman, respectively). No infringement is intended.
> 
> A/N: For the record, Empty Spaces is my official series 3 head!canon...but this little plot bunny seems like it's a fun take on what's next for our intrepid (albeit miserably tortured) duo. I hope you enjoy. :)
> 
> Note: there are going to be more chapters; I just can't figure out how to edit the chapter numbers... :(

Hardy catches the train to Sandbrook and books into a rather seedy hotel on the outskirts of town.  Definitely not the one he and Miller stayed at; he didn’t think he could deal with the memories of the awkward night they shared a room, especially now they’ve said good-bye and he’s closed the book on Broadchurch and Sandbrook and Ellie Miller.

Or she closed it.

Doesn’t matter.

He settles in, texts Daisy and Tess to let them know he’s in town but he plans to rest the next day.  His incision is sore and even if he has way more energy than before his surgery, the events of the last two days are catching up to him.

He gets ready for bed, eyes drooping, both from the pain pill he’s taken and just from the sheer...relief?  Is that what it is?

No, what he’s feeling is too blank for relief.  It’s just...

_Finished_. 

All of it.  His marriage, possibly his career, the Sandbrook case, the Latimer trial, Broadchurch.

He blinks sleepy eyes as he crawls beneath the covers and yawns.

It’s all finished, and tomorrow is a new day.

*/*/*/*/*

He sleeps through it.  Almost dreamlessly.

He doesn’t dream of drowning, at least, and when he sees Pippa, she’s the beautiful, laughing child she’d been rather than what she’d become, thanks to Lee and Claire and the river.

He wakes only long enough to use the loo, take another pain pill--the last—and then sprawl on the bed in a way he hasn’t done since he was a child.  Diagonally, long legs and arms stretched out as far as the bed and his still-tender incision allows and hurtles back into sleep, as relaxed as a cat beneath the comforter.

He feels slightly guilty when he wakes the next morning, but it’s the most rested he’s felt since the girls went missing.  Emotionally, he’s still curiously blank as he gets up, brushes his teeth, showers and dresses.  He knots his tie, combs his hair, then stares at his face in the mirror, wondering what he should do next.

His stomach rumbles.

Food would be a good place to start, he thinks with a rueful twist to his mouth and leaves the bathroom.

He picks up his wallet and phone, pulls on a suit jacket, slips into his coat and steps out the door--

\--into a barrage of sudden shouts and flashing cameras and what looks like every fucking reporter in the British Isles surging towards him.  He reacts instinctively, ducking back into his room and slamming the door.  He hurriedly locks it and steps away, eyes wide, mouth hanging open as the reporters hammer on the door and call his name and half-garbled questions.

For a moment he thinks he must still be sleeping because he has no idea how they found him or why.

He pulls out his phone although he’s not really sure who he should call and his mouth opens even farther when he sees the sheer number of missed calls and text messages showing on the screen.  He looks helplessly from the phone to where the reporters are still yelling for him and makes a rapid-fire decision.

He glances round the room and hurriedly hides or grabs anything that’s too personal for any enterprising reporter who might worm their way into the room, then marches firmly to the door, flings it open and roars for quiet.

The suddenness of it shocks the pack of reporters into silence and even the photographers pause from taking pictures as they blink at him.

“I’m assuming this is about the Gillespie/Newberry case?” he growls.

A mistake, as it only sets them off again.

“Yes!”

“Is it true--”

“When did--”

“How long--”

“--Claire Ripley--”

“--Ricky--”

“--Ashworth--”

He raises his voice and says, “I will not be making any statements directly to the press.  The case is the responsibility of the South Mercia Constabulary and all communication will be through their official representative.”

“Is it true you were hiding Claire Ripley in some sort of do-it-yourself witness protection program?” someone shouts and everyone continues yelling questions over each other as the cameras flash and whir.

He pushes his way through the crowd, hiding a wince as his incision pulls a little, and stoically ignores everyone as he flags down a cab and gets inside with a sigh of relief.

As they drive to the police station, he scrolls through his phone calls--unknowns, Daisy, Tess, and--his heart leaps--Miller.  He checks his text messages and sees four are from her:

<<call me>>

<<CALL ME>>

<<stop ignoring me you little shit and CALL ME!!>>

<<!>>

Daisy’s text is a bit more loving, asking if he was all right and to call or text her as soon as he can.  Tess’ is just a simple <<call>>.

He sends a quick text to Daisy, telling he’s fine and he’ll call her later.

Then he calls Miller.

“Finally!” she snaps when she answers.

“For God’s sake,” he growls, “I haven’t even been gone for forty-eight hours!”

“Well, where the bloody hell have you been?”

“Sleeping!  I’ve had two years of sleepless nights to catch up on, not to mention pacemaker surgery five days ago!  I needed some sleep!”

“Well, while you’ve been getting your beauty sleep, all hell’s broken loose!  Have you seen the news?”

“No, but I was ambushed by a ravening pack of reporters on my doorstep, so I’m assuming the Sandbrook case is the story of the day.”

“Ha!  More like the story of the decade!  They’ve been following me everywhere I go and I don’t know which is worse:  the fact they want me to tell them every detail about how we solved the case, or the fact they can’t seem to wait to bring up the fact that while I solved Sandbrook, I’m also the reason Joe was acquitted!”

He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.  “They’ll get tired of it soon enough, the bloody vultures.  There’ll be a new story for them to pick at tomorrow.”

“Ha!”

There’s a short pause, then Miller says, in a very different tone of voice, “Was it this bad the first time round?  When the pendant was stolen, I mean?”

He presses his lips together as he tilts his head back, blinking rapidly, struggling against the memories of those days immediately after the news broke and the trial fell apart.

“Hardy?” she prompts when it seems like he’s not going to speak again.

“I can’t really say right now,” he says slowly, “I haven’t seen the stories yet this time round.  The last time...well, ‘relentless’ is one way to describe it.  They needed somebody to blame, and they needed somebody to pay.  Once I quit my job and left town, they were... _appeased_.  Most of them, anyway.”  He doesn’t have to say the name Karen White for Miller to know who he’s talking about.  “In a way, I guess they felt like they’d gotten some small measure of justice. 

“I don’t know what’s driving this frenzy, but it’ll all be over in a few days once everyone finishes patting themselves on the back about knowing it was Ashworth all along, and gets over the shock about Ricky and Claire.”

Miller snorts.  “Well, if they start to follow my boys, they’ll have a completely different story to tell.”

He can’t stop the smile that spreads across his face at that.  “Should I warn them?”

“Na, why give them a head start?”

He’s still smiling as they disconnect and his taxi pulls up in front of his old police station, where another crowd of reporters is gathered.

“Take me round back,” he says but it’s too late.  He’s been spotted and the crowd is already rushing the car.

He scowls as he pays the driver then opens the door and silently pushes his way through the crush and into the station.

Tess just shakes her head and takes him to see the Chief Superintendent.

*/*/*/*/*

“ _Interviews_?” Hardy says, his mouth curling up with disgust.  “You want me to grant _interviews_?”

“Yes, interviews,” CS Rebecca Cranston says, leaning back in her chair and giving him a stern, angry look.  “As many as we tell you to do.  You ran this investigation on your own, Hardy, you’re just lucky we’re going to run any interference for you at all.”

“We solved the thing,” he growls, “what more do you want?”

She throws up her hands.  “Some kind of official sanction for your bloody off-the-cuff undercover whatever-the-hell-you-were-running!  You had no police authority to do _anything_ in relation to this case,let alone with Claire bloody Ripley!  And now you’ve dropped us in it with a vengeance and without warning.  All we can do is hope everything’s going to hold up in court.  If things fall apart because of you _this_ time, you’d better never step foot in this town again and especially not in my bloody station under my bloody watch!  You want to get back on my good side?  You’ll do all the interviews we tell you to do, play nice with everyone we tell you to play nice with, do everything exactly as I tell you to do it, and maybe-- _maybe_ \--we’ll see about getting you back on the force here.  Depending on how the public reacts to all this--this--” she shakes her head and throws her hands up in disgust.

Hardy presses his lips tight against the words he wants to say, swallows then growls, “Fine.”

She glares and shakes her head.  “I never took you as somebody who’d fly in the face of protocol like this, Hardy.”

He sits unmoving, no expression on his face although his eyes darken with memories.

“Nobody else wanted to touch the case,” he says more calmly than he feels, “too dangerous for their _careers_.”  He lifts his lip in a contemptuous sneer on the last word.  “I didn’t have a career to lose anymore and I wasn’t about to let whoever killed those girls get away with it.”

“Don’t give me your self-righteous bullshit, Hardy,” Rebecca snaps. “You would have felt exactly the same if you hadn’t been the one to fuck up.”

He looks back at her in silence.

“Go to Communications,” she says with a disgusted roll of her eyes. “Ask for Isabella Nugent.  She’s going to be your public relations liaison with all the media outlets who are clamoring for a piece of you.  I don’t want to see hide nor hair of you until this all dies down.  We’ll decide what we’re going to do with you then.  Now go.”

He wavers, struck with a sudden pang of homesickness for his little blue shack, those overwhelming orange cliffs, the ocean waves, and Miller in her eye-burning orange anorak.

But he’s a long way from Broadchurch and if he wants to regain his life here and have the chance to be a larger part of his daughter’s life...

He tilts his head in agreement and leaves without another word.

*/*/*/*/*

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N1 - Did I happen to mention that this fic is a bit more crack-y than I usually write? Well...it is...a little bit. :)
> 
> */*/*/*/*

Ellie raises an eyebrow when she sees Hardy’s number pop up on her phone.

“Another bloody reporter?” asks her partner, glancing away from the road and giving her a slightly cruel smirk.

Ellie rolls her eyes and shakes her head in response.  After six weeks, she’s heartily sick of the still-steady stream of phone calls and e-mails from reporters wanting an interview, the constant ribbing from her co-workers, and the seemingly endless cruising of the back roads of Devon searching for traffic violations.  The job had been just what she needed after the shit-show her life had become immediately after Joe’s arrest, but now she feels like it’s just a matter of time before it all drives her completely mad.

She picks up the call.

“Hello.”

“You wanted me to tell you when that show was going to be broadcast.”

“I’m fine, Hardy, how are you?” she says sarcastically.

“What?”

She sighs, “Never mind.”

There’s puzzled silence on the other end of the phone, then Hardy says, “Friday evening.  Seven o’clock.”

“Awright.  Have you seen it?”

“God, no!  I’m not watching the bloody thing!”

She almost smiles at the horrified disgust in his voice.  “Well, think of it this way:  you’ll finally be on telly.”

“I’ve been on telly before, Miller.”

Any urge to smile disappears as she remembers when and why he’s made other television appearances.

“Right,” she mumbles.

“Miller...” he hesitates and for a second she can see him as clearly as if he was standing in front of her, struggling to determine what to say next.  “Warn the Latimers, awright?” he finally says.  “According to Isabella, the series has quite a good reputation.  She swears it’s not sensationalist, for an American series about real murders, anyway.”

“Well, that’s something, at least.”

“Not enough,” he says morosely.

“I’ll let them know,” she says.  “Any idea yet when they’re going to let you back on the force?”

He snorts.  “Not any time soon.  Now it’s because I’ve been too much in the press and my notoriety might interfere with my ability to do my job.  For God’s sake.  At least the requests are starting to ease off, now they’ve pled guilty and are just waiting to be sentenced.”

“And it only took six weeks.  I’m impressed with Sandbrook’s efficiency.”

“The case was deemed high priority given the public’s extreme interest in both the crimes and the arrests.”

“That sounds suspiciously like a prepared statement.”

“I see you haven’t lost your detecting skills, Miller,” he says, a thread of amusement in his voice.

“Not yet, anyway.” She glances over at her avidly listening partner.  “I have to go,” she says, suddenly brisk.  “Friday?”

“Yah.  At seven.  Warn the Latimers.”

“I will.”

They end the call, and she gives her partner a non-committal smile before pointedly turning her head to look out the window.

*/*/*/*/*

They gather at Lucy’s.  It’s a neutral location, or at least more neutral than Beth and Mark’s place, or Ellie’s.  They’re a bit cramped in the small living room:  Beth, Mark and Chloe on the couch, with baby Lizzie cooing on a blanket on the floor beside Fred, and Ellie and Lucy on the loveseat, while Ollie has the armchair and Tom is perched on a chair brought in from the kitchen.

It would look like a party if they weren’t so nervous.  They make desultory conversation and go abruptly silent as the episode begins.

*/*/*/*/*

{{A bland, well-groomed man of indeterminate age stands in front of a large screen with the series’ title.}}

Jeffery:  Good evening, I’m Collin Jeffery.  Tonight, on a special, two-hour edition of _Close to Home,_ we go across the sea to Great Britain.  In a small English city, two girls go missing.  One is found in a river three days later but the other has disappeared without a trace.  An arrest, a scandal, and the case falls apart.  A year later, a boy is murdered in a sleepy tourist town on the south coast of the country.  Two unrelated crimes, connected in a way that no one would expect.  This is the story of three families touched by tragedy, two communities changed forever...and one man who links them together.  Here is Grace Heath.

{{Grace Heath is a polished blonde woman, also of indeterminate age.  Over photographs of Pippa and Lisa and their families, footage of scenes in and around Sandbrook, as well as interviews with friends and family, Grace calmly lays out the tangled history of the Gillespie, Newberry and Ashworth families prior to the disappearance of the two girls.  She then describes the course of the investigation and the evidence, including the discovery of Pippa’s body, Lee Ashworth’s arrest, and the beginning of his trial.}}

Grace (voice-over):  The case against Ashworth is circumstantial at best, but everyone involved is convinced he’s the right man.  This belief seems to be confirmed when the police finally catch a break:  in the back of a car Lee Ashworth had recently sold, they find the pendant Pippa Gillespie was wearing the day she disappeared.  Is this the smoking gun they’ve been waiting for?

Grace (voice-over) cont’d:  Then…disaster.

Grace (voice-over) cont’d:  An illicit affair between detectives.  A decision to stop for a clandestine tryst, with essential evidence in a murder case left in the back seat of the car.  A theft.  A scandal.  A case in tatters.  And one man taking the fall.

{{Blurred footage of the back of a tall, lanky man, walking towards a chair.  He comes in to focus as he turns and sits down, looking distinctly uncomfortable as he stares into the camera with wide eyes.}}

_// Ellie catches her breath.  It’s been weeks since she’s seen him and while he’s still scruffy, he’s at least combed his hair.  But he looks so different somehow...must be because he’s on telly. // _

Grace (voice-over) cont’d:  This man:  Detective Inspector Alec Hardy, the man in charge of the team of police investigating the crime.

Grace (to Hardy):  How did you feel when you realized the pendant had been stolen?

{{Hardy’s face fills the screen as he stares at her in silence, dark eyes wide, lips pressed into a tight, thin line.}}

// _“Blimey, I think he’s going to cry, Ell,” Lucy mutters._

_Ellie hushes her without taking her eyes from the screen.  She feels as if she’s seeing the man for the first time, and maybe she is.  It’s certainly the first time she’s looking at him without resentment (“You took my job.”), grief (“I know that boy!”), anger (“...knob...”), horror (“No! Not Joe!”), or through the veil of shit that had become her life after the confession and during the trial. _//

Hardy:  That’s a {{bleep}} stupid question!

// _Everyone in the living room blinks and rears back, then exchange rueful grins._

_“Well,” Ellie says, “maybe not cry.” _//

{{On-screen, Hardy glares at the interviewer, almost visibly vibrating with righteous outrage.}}

Hardy:  How do you _think_ I felt?  My only piece of physical evidence--gone.  Knowing the case would fall apart without it.  Knowing I had a missing girl I still needed to find, and a-- {{his voice cracks but he doesn’t waver}} --a dead child who still needed justice, families that still needed answers.  _How do you think I felt?_   If all your questions are going to be this bloody stupid, we can end this right now.

{{Cuts away to scenery of Sandbrook.}}

Grace (voice-over):  Hardy has good reason to be sensitive to the question.

{{Montage of headlines and news clips illustrating the anger and vitriol in the press and the community in the immediate aftermath of the theft.}}

Grace (voice-over) cont’d:  When the theft came to light and the trial fell apart, he alone took the blame--and the fallout.  Pilloried in the press and by the community, asked to resign, his marriage broken from the strain, Alec Hardy slunk out of Sandbrook to start over, to put the Gillespie/Newberry case behind him.

{{Images switch to pictures and footage of Broadchurch.}}

Grace (voice-over) cont’d:  A little over a year after Pippa Gillespie was murdered and Lisa Newberry went missing, Alec Hardy arrives here, a new Detective Inspector in a sleepy little tourist town where nothing much ever happens.  A small village in Dorset, Broachurch is a popular tourist destination known for its dramatic landscape and not much else.

Grace (voice-over) cont’d:  Until July 2013, when the body of a boy is found on the beach.  Danny Latimer, eleven years old.  Strangled to death.  And the person in charge of the case is none other Alec Hardy, who’s been in Broadchurch for less than three weeks.

// _No one in Lucy’s living room can take their eyes off the screen.  Ellie’s fingers curl into tight fists as Grace Heath relays the story of Danny’s murder in her dispassionate voice.  Ellie starts when Lucy reaches over and puts her hand over hers._

_She unfurls her fingers and the sisters hold hands as the documentary continues._ //

{{Grace describes the course of events during the investigation into Danny’s murder, and delves into Ellie’s role, Jack Marshall’s suicide, Hardy being labelled The Worst Cop in Britain, and goes on to describe Joe’s arrest, trial and acquittal.}}

// _Ellie’s breathing heavily by the time the segment is over.  It isn’t until she hears Lucy say a very quiet, “Ow,” that she realizes how tightly she’s clutching at her sister’s hand and makes a conscious effort to relax her grip._ //

Grace (voice-over):  There, by rights, should be where these stories end, but in many ways, it’s where they begin...again.  Because unknown to anyone there, Alec Hardy had a secret.  Several, in fact, and how those secrets would impact both of these cases would surprise everyone.

Grace (voice-over) cont’d:  His first secret was he was hiding a life-threatening heart condition, and had been from the moment he arrived in Broadchurch.  The entire time he was hunting for Danny Latimer’s killer, he had a ticking time bomb in his chest.  Not that that fact helped him during Joe Miller’s trial.

Grace (to Hardy):  You were accused of beating a confession out of Joe Miller.

Hardy:  Yes.

Grace:  Where were you, barely forty-eight hours before you arrested Joe Miller?

Hardy:  In hospital.  I had been injured while pursuing a suspect.

Grace:  By injured, don’t you mean heart attack?

Hardy:  It wasn’t exactly a heart attack.

Grace:  Your heart stopped beating.  Isn’t that the very definition of heart attack?

{{silence}}

Grace:  Would you have been in any shape to beat a confession out of Joe Miller?

Hardy:  I’m not in the habit of beating anybody, whether I’m in shape for it or not.

// _As he warily responds to the interviewer, Ellie thinks whoever’s running the camera must have a crush on him, because the angles they choose puts him to his best advantage.  Still scruffy, yes, but better groomed than in Broadchurch and almost...Ellie hesitates... handsome._

_If you like the scruffy, too-tall, too-much-of-a-wanker kind of men._

_Which she doesn’t._ //

Grace:  You were also accused of having an affair with Joe Miller’s wife, Ellie, the Detective Sergeant who helped you investigate Danny Latimer’s murder.

Hardy {{rolls eyes}}:  Just the defense team throwing {{bleep}} hoping something would stick.

Grace:  The Defense alleged that Ellie spent more than two hours in your hotel room with you the evening Joe was arrested.  Is that true?

Hardy:  I didn’t really notice the time.

Grace:  So it’s true.

Hardy:  Like I said, I didn’t notice how long she stayed, but the fact she was there?  Yes.

Grace:  But the not the rest.

Hardy:  No.

Grace:  Why should we believe you?

Hardy:  Because, as you pointed out earlier, not even forty-eight hours earlier I’d been in the hospital after being injured while pursuing a suspect.

Grace:  You mean after your heart attack.

{{Hardy scowls but remains silent.}}

Grace (voice-over):  Hardy’s second secret was that he didn’t come to Broadchurch alone.  He rented an isolated cottage just outside the village for Claire Ripley, the same Claire Ripley who was married to Lee Ashworth and was a key witness against her husband during his trial. 

{{Grace explains how and why Hardy began hiding Claire, then moves to Ellie’s involvement in the Sandbrook investigation, the resulting revelations about the case, the arrests and the subsequent confessions from Lee, Ricky and Claire.}}

Grace (voice over):  The third secret Hardy was hiding was that the pendant hadn’t been stolen out of his car.  He hadn’t been the one who stopped for a drink with critical evidence left on the back seat.  Instead, it had been two Detective Sergeants, involved in an illicit affair, who had stopped for a tryst at a hotel.

Grace (to Hardy):  You took the blame.

Hardy:  It happened on my watch.  It was my responsibility.

Grace:  It seems to be a rather drastic step, taking the blame to protect two Detective Sergeants who should have known better than to stop somewhere while they were transporting vital evidence in a criminal investigation.

{{Hardy raises an eyebrow but remains silent.}}

Grace:  Is there something about the theft of the pendant that you’re still not sharing?

{{silence}}

Grace:  You tried to take the blame during Joe Miller’s trial as well.  When they questioned you about Detective Sergeant Ellie Miller being allowed access to her husband immediately after he had confessed to murder, you said it was your fault then, too.

Hardy:  Yes.

{{silence}}

Grace:  You seem to have a habit of making bad decisions during criminal investigations.

{{silence}}

Grace:  Are you working right now?

Hardy:  No.

Grace:  Do you think your record of poor judgment may play a role in your failure to find a job?

Hardy:  It’s more likely because I haven’t started looking yet.

Grace:  Right.  You’re still recovering from heart surgery.

{{silence}}

Grace:  You did just have surgery to put in a pacemaker, didn’t you?

{{silence}}

Grace:  You have nothing to say about that?

Hardy:  Just that we have privacy laws in this country and I’m thinking you may have broken a few in order to get that information.

Grace:  So it’s true.

{{Hardy once again raises an eyebrow but remains silent}}

// _Lucy says, “He’s a bitch to interview, but he looks really good while he’s ignoring the questions.”_

_Beth and Ellie exchange amused glances while Ollie scrunches up his face with disgust and says, “Mom!”_

_Lucy waves a hand, her eyes still focused on the telly._ //

Grace:  Was it worth it?  After everything you lost, after everything that happened...was it worth the price you paid?

{{Hardy stares silently at the interviewer, the camera catching every emotion on his face and in his eyes.}}

Hardy (slowly):  It wasn’t worth the pain I caused my daughter.  I didn’t realize how bad it would get and how much it would impact her.

{{Pause}}

Grace:  What about the impact on you?

Hardy:  I had to get justice for Pippa and Lisa.  I saw a chance and took it.  Was it worth the price I paid?  Aye, in the end.  Was it worth the price other people paid?  {{shrugs slightly}} I can’t speak for them.

Grace:  Do you think you’ll find another job?  As a Detective Inspector?

Hardy:  I’m hopeful.

Grace:  Have you been cleared, medically, to return to the force?

Hardy:  Yes.

Grace:  Then you’d only have to worry about your reputation as the worst cop in Britain?

Hardy {{rolls eyes}}:  It was one bloody newspaper!

{{Grace chuckles.}}

Grace (voice over):  To say Alec Hardy is a mystery wrapped in an enigma would be an understatement.  Grumpy and taciturn to a fault, over the course of a sometimes difficult four-hour interview, however, it became clear that beneath the gruff exterior and the unwavering, passionate devotion to getting justice for the victims and their families, there’s a tentative, almost shy charm and a wry sense of humor.

Grace (to Hardy):  You say it was worth it, in the end.  Except you lost your family, your job, your reputation, almost your career.  Yet you still didn’t give up on the case.  You took advantage of the opportunity to keep Claire Ripley close to you, to keep your connection to her alive.

Hardy {{shrugs}}: I did what anyone else would have done.

Grace:  Except no one else _was_ doing it.  Your ex-wife was promoted to your old position.  Do you know how many times she turned down requests to re-open the case?

Hardy:  Probably none, because no one wanted to touch it.

Grace:  Except you.  That’s true devotion.

Hardy:  We-ell, you call it devotion now.  Others called it obsession.

Grace:  It got the job done.

Hardy:  Na.  Outstanding detective work got the job done.

Grace:  Yours?

Hardy {{rolls his eyes}}:  Miller’s, of course!  She’s the one who made the connection we’d all missed the first time round.

Grace (to Hardy):  We sent multiple requests for an interview to Ellie Miller.  She refused with…some…rather colourful expletives followed by a direct threat to our producer’s testicles if our staff came anywhere near her.

Hardy {{Close-up of Hardy’s face as he slowly smiles then laughs.}}:  Wish I’d thought of that.

// _Every woman in Lucy’s living room audibly gasps, including Ellie._

_Lucy elbows her sister and says, “Told you!”_

_Ellie rolls her eyes in response and ignores the curious look Beth sends in her direction._ //

{{The video freeze-frames on Hardy’s laughing face.}}

Grace (voice over):  During our interview, Alec Hardy repeatedly insisted the cases weren’t about him.  He asked us to focus on the victims and their families, on the lessons learned from these tragedies, on the damage done to the communities as a result of these senseless crimes.  He continually down-played his own role in keeping the Sandbrook case alive when everyone around him had given up, and reminded us to give credit to Ellie Miller, the woman he claims was the final catalyst needed to solve the case.

Grace (voice over) cont’d:  Whatever may be next for this detective who is almost as doggedly determined to avoid taking the credit as he is willing to shoulder the blame, we’re sure he’ll continue to do what he does best:  work tirelessly for the victims and their families.

{{The image switches to Collin Jeffery.}}

Jeffery:  Joe Miller left Broadchurch after his acquittal.  Efforts to find him for this program were unsuccessful.  Ricky Gillespie, Lee Ashworth and Claire Ripley have pled guilty to the charges against them and are currently awaiting sentencing.  This is Collin Jeffery for _Close to Home_.  Thank you for watching.  Goodnight.

*/*/*/*/*

Ellie feels like a wet rag after the program ends and the television is turned off.  She looks at Beth, who’s pale but composed.

“That wasn’t so bad, yah?” Ellie says.

Beth wipes at her eyes.  “It was...better than I expected.”

“Hardy seems to be everywhere these days,” Mark says thoughtfully.

Ellie pulls a face.  “Under orders of the South Mercia constabulary.  Personally, I think they’re trying to save face.”

“Save face?” Ollie asks.  “How do you mean?”

She shoots him a warning look.  “They gave up on the case,” she says, “and Hardy didn’t.  It looks bad on them that they didn’t keep trying to solve it.  Trust me, he can’t wait until the frenzy dies down and he can get back to a real job.”

“Well, it’s got to calm down soon,” Beth says.

“I certainly hope so,” Ellie sighs, and gratefully takes the drink Lucy hands her.

*/*/*/*/*

She wanders aimlessly from her kitchen to the living room and back again once Fred’s down for the night and Tom’s up in his room.  Ellie’s vaguely worried about Tom; he’d been even quieter than usual on the way home.

She understands.

Even she sometimes has a difficult time reconciling the Joe they’d known—loving, supportive, fun-loving, happy Joe—with the man who claimed to have fallen in love with an eleven-year-old boy and then murdered him rather than face the truth about their relationship, or have it exposed.  It’s confusing and unsettling and may always stay that way.

Maybe, as Hardy said that awful night, some things are just unknowable.

She wanders back into the living room and sighs as she grabs the phone.

He picks up on the second ring.

“Yah?”

“Did you watch it?”

“I’m fine, Miller, how are you?”

“What?” she demands then stops as she realizes what she’s done.  She chuckles and to her surprise there’s a sound on the other end of the phone, warm and husky, almost like he’s chuckling, too.

“You’re a bad influence,” she tells him.

“Me?  I’m not even there!”

She sinks down on to the sofa with a smile, puts her feet up on the coffee table, and begins to trade barbs with her former boss.

*/*/*/*/*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> */*/*/*/*
> 
> A/N2 - As I mentioned in my Author's Notes for Empty Spaces, I watch waaaayyyy too many real crime documentaries. When the premise of this story came to me, I knew I wouldn't be able to resist writing a version of a documentary about Sandbrook and Broadchurch and Alec Hardy/Ellie Miller. Hopefully I managed to make it understandable (since I didn't feel like putting it in proper script format). :D


	3. Chapter 3

“Mr. Hardy?  Alec Hardy?”

He stops in his journey towards the nearest tea shop round the corner from his new motel, closes his eyes and groans.  The Rosewood Inn may be at the lowest end of the scale, but it’s what he can afford and since they rent by the hour, they don’t ask any questions or require a real name.  He doesn’t want to find a new place to stay if another bloody reporter’s tracked him down.  Besides, he’s only just finished sanitizing the room to point where he thinks he’ll be able to sleep in it.

He heaves a sigh and turns.

It’s not a reporter.

It’s an elderly woman, about seventy or so, bundled into a bulky cardigan, loose jeans and ancient trainers.  For a moment he’s reminded of Susan Wright, only this woman’s wide face is open and friendly even as she’s watching him with wary curiosity and a hopeful air.

Bloody hell--another ‘fan’.

He mutters, “I don’t give autographs,” as kindly as he can.

The woman blinks, taken aback, then says, “I don’t want your autograph!  I want to hire you!”

*/*/*/*/*

The woman wraps her hands around the steaming cup of tea in front of her.  Hardy escorted her to this quiet tea shop after her surprising announcement, settled her at a table and ordered their tea without saying much of anything to her or anyone else.  Now they slouch over the tiny table taking the other’s measure.

“So,” she says with a faint smile, wrinkles crinkling the corners of her eyes.  She looks like a slightly eccentric, cozy grandmother albeit one, Hardy can see now, with a lingering sadness beneath the surface. “You’re getting pressed for autographs, then?”

He shrugs.  “One or two,” he growls, “although I suspect my ex-wife and former co-workers are just taking the piss.”  His eyes widen.  “Sorry,” he mutters.

She waves away his apology.  “Or maybe people really do just want your autograph.  You were very impressive on Friday.”

He gives a slight lift to his shoulders.  “I looked like an arse,” he says then grimaces with another apology.

She raises an eyebrow.  “Did you watch the entire thing?”

He shakes his head.  “Na, I didn’t even mean to watch the bit I saw.  I walked into the pub and it was on the telly--God knows why.  I walked out again once I realized what it was.”

She smiles more broadly, eyes twinkling in spite of her underlying sadness.  “Well, if you had looked like an arse, I wouldn’t be here.”

He gives her a slight smile then hunches a little closer over the table, pinning her with an intense stare.  “I’m not a private investigator.”

“I know,” she says, “but you are the first ray of hope I’ve seen in years.”

He sighs.  “Well, tell me what’s going on, and if nothing else, I may be able to tell you who to talk to.”

She thoughtfully considers him.  “You don’t recognize me, do you?”

He studies her for a long moment before giving a slight shake of his head.

“Back in the day, when anyone mentioned ‘The Sandbrook Case’, they meant us.  I’m Dorothea Livingstone.  My daughter, Francesca, has been missing for ten years, eight months and seventeen days.  I want you to help me find her.”

“Mrs. Livingstone--”

“Dottie.  Please.”

Hardy hesitates before he says, “Dottie...I’m not on active duty at the moment.”  He doesn’t mention that the only reason he has any money at all is because the Broadchurch police department is still paying his salary.

“Which is why you’ll have time to focus on this case.”

“I don’t have access to any of my usual resources: DSs or uniforms, forensics, databases, all that.”

“I’m not worried about that,” she says, sitting back in her chair with a shrug.

“Why not?”

“You found a way to solve the Gillespie/Newberry cases. You’ll find a way to solve this one.”

“That was different, Mrs. Living--Dottie.”

Dottie leans forward, her hands loosely clasped on the table in front of her.  “It was personal.  I know.”  She meets his eyes with a calm, steady gaze of her own.  “This is personal, too, Mr. Hardy.”

*/*/*/*/*

CS Rebecca Cranston turns him down without hesitation.

He clenches his teeth and growls, “Why not?”

“We don’t have the resources.”

“Then put me back on active duty as a--a special investigator or something and I’ll look into it!  You don’t have to assign anyone else.”

“I am not putting you back on the force just so you can use up our resources chasing down a case that’s ten years old!  We both know you can’t do it on your own, and we have new cases we need to focus on.”

“Well, maybe you need to focus on _solving_ cases rather than letting them moulder in the file room!”

Rebecca barks a bitter laugh.  “That kind of attitude isn’t going to get you back on this force, Hardy!”

He glares at her for long, silent moments then growls, “You’ve been punishing me ever since I came back to Sandbrook.  What’s really driving all this?  Why are you so determined to keep me out?”

Rebecca’s eyes narrow as she glares at him.  He can almost see the gears turning in her head and knows the moment she’s made the decision to tell him why she was so angry.  She leans forward. 

“You _lied_ to me, Hardy!  You stood here, in my office, looked me straight in the eye and told me the pendant was lost because of you.  That was bad enough, but then I find out--months after that fact!  And from the _Broadchurch Echo_ , of all the bloody places--that you took the fall for two incompetent, terminally _stupid_ Detective Sergeants!  You chose to protect two bloody idiots rather than the integrity and quality of our team and therefore the work that we do.  And I’m left to wonder which of my officers I should trust and which ones I shouldn’t!  Why did you do it, Hardy?”

He looks back at her, eyes wide and pained, lips pressed into a tight line.

“Are you going to tell me who they were?”

He doesn’t respond.

Rebecca lifts her lip in an angry sneer and leans back in her chair.  “Don’t you have another interview to do?”

*/*/*/*/*

Hardy does the only thing he can.

*/*/*/*/*

He isn’t surprised when his phone rings late the next day and Miller’s name pops up on the screen.

“Yeah?”

“You sent that poor woman to me, didn’t you?”

“Is that what she told you?”

“Ah ha!  You’re not even asking which poor woman I’m talking about!”

“We-ell, it could be any one of a dozen poor women who’ve been talking to me the last few days.”

That trips her up a little.  “That many?”

“I guess you’ll find out.”

He almost hears her eyes rolling.  “Well, the woman I’m talking about is Dottie Livingstone.”

“Yeah.”

“Did you turn her down?”

“What did she tell you?”

“She said you sent her to me.”

“Yeah.”

“God, getting you to talk some days... _why_?”

“Because things aren’t going to get better with the CS here any time soon.  While I still have favours I can call in, I won’t have official access to the resources I may need to be able to fully investigate the case.  No official forensics or DNA analysis, which might taint the case if it ever does get solved.  Besides, Dottie wants the person who solved Sandbrook.  That’s you, Miller.”

“Oh, for--don’t be daft!”

“I’m stating a fact.”

“You’re the one who wouldn’t let it go!”

“You’re the one who saw the evidence that broke Lee’s story!”

“Well, then Dottie Livingstone needs both of us, doesn’t she?”

He opens his mouth and stops cold as her words sink in.

“ _What?_ ” he finally manages.

“I said, she needs both of us.”

He gulps a little then says, “You want to work the case?  With me?”

“Well, you’re a celebrity now.  That must come with some perks, yah?  Free tea, if nothing else.”

“Miller.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, yes!  Yes, I want to work the case!  This poor woman doesn’t know where her daughter is or what happened to her, and it’s been ten years.  And yes, I think we should work it together since she’s asked so nicely.”

He’s silent, scowling into the distance.  On the one hand, his newly regulated heart is racing with happiness, but on the other hand...

“I didn’t think you wanted to see me again,” he says, “or speak to me.  If it hadn’t been for all the media shite the last few weeks, you never would have called me again.”

“We-ell, you looked like you couldn’t wait to get away from Broadchurch.”

“I couldn’t.”

“There, see?  We’re not exactly _friends_ , Hardy.”

He swallows down the sudden lump in his throat and knows he’ll never tell her just how much she means to him.  She’d never believe him...and she wouldn’t want to know.  At least he can save what small bit of pride he has left if he moves on without her ever finding out how he feels.

“Suppose not,” he mutters.

“So?  Are you going to work on Dottie’s case with me?”

“You don’t really need me, Miller.”

There’s silence on the other end of the phone. 

“I don’t want to do it without you,” she finally mutters, almost angrily.

The ensuing silence is filled with possibilities as he desperately tries to think of what, if anything, to say in response.

He finally settles for, “I have plans with Daisy tomorrow, but I can be in Broadchurch the day after.”

“Get here in time for dinner.  We can go over the case notes after we eat.”

“Awright.”

They end the call and he tosses the phone on the bed, then paces the room with one hand on his hip while he roughly runs the other through his hair.

He doesn’t know what he’s thinking, saying yes to working yet another case with Miller.  Except all he’s doing now is dancing to Rebecca Cranston’s tune and talking to bloody reporters, and Dottie Livingstone has been waiting for answers for ten years, eight months and eighteen days, and Miller...

_Miller_.

He’s an idiot.

*/*/*/*/*


	4. Chapter 4

Ellie puts the phone on the coffee table and stares at it, wondering what the bloody hell she was thinking, telling Hardy she wanted to work the case and—even worse—asking him to work the case with her, even going so far as to say she doesn’t want to work on it without him.  It’s not like she can take any more time from her traffic cop job in Devon.  She doesn’t even know if it’s possible to solve the case, but Dottie had been so quietly confident they could find what happened to Francesca, Ellie had found herself saying yes almost without thinking.

She falls back against the sofa cushions, buries her fingers in her hair and pulls.

“Mum?”

She jumps and stares at Tom, who’s standing in the doorway, watching her with a worried look on his face.  She drops her hands and forces a smile.

“Yah?”

“Are you all right?”

She blinks.  “Of course.  Why?  Don’t I look all right?”

He crunches his face in disbelief and she grimaces.

“Right.”  She pats the sofa cushion beside her and Tom reluctantly comes towards her and sits down.  He’s gotten so big so quickly, she thinks he’s still not quite sure how to move his suddenly much longer legs and arms.  Her stomach twists as she suddenly wonders if Danny would have had this growth spurt too, or if he would have been a late bloomer, or if he would have been shorter than average.  She fights the urge to burst into tears and throw her arms around Tom and hug him for all he’s worth.

She also fights the guilt she feels at her relief it hadn’t been _her_ son.

She shoves down her anger that it _had_ been her husband.

She settles for taking Tom’s hand and giving it a comforting squeeze.

“I’m all right,” she says with a smile that’s only slightly insincere.  “A woman came to see me today, about a cold case she’d like to reopen.”

“With Hardy?”

She raises an eyebrow at his suspicion tones.

“Yes, with Hardy.  He’s coming for dinner on Thursday and we’re going to go through the information the woman gave us, see if there’s anything we can do to help her.”

He presses his lips together into a tight line and bows his head.

Ellie frowns.

“I thought you rather liked Hardy?”

He scowls, but doesn’t lift his head or look at her.

“Or at least didn’t mind him,” she says with a trace of humour.

“ _Did_ you have an affair with him while you were married to Dad?” he blurts.

She rears back, her mouth sagging open with surprise.

“No!  Why would you even think that?  God, Hardy even denied it on international television!”

“Well, there’s lots of speculation online, and there are newspaper articles saying you did and there’s video footage of you and him going in and out of hotels both here and in Sandbrook and--”

“Tom,” she says, firmly but kindly, “don’t pay attention to people who have nothing better to do than to spout off from behind a keyboard about things they know nothing about!  Besides, our trips to Sandbrook were during the trial and were strictly business!  We were investigating a suspicious death and a disappearance, successfully, too, I might add, otherwise nobody would be talking about us at all.”

She frowns.  “What are you doing, looking online about this stuff anyway?”

Tom gives her the pitying look only teenagers are capable of giving their ancient parents.  “It’s all over, Mum.  It’s all anyone’s talking about.”

Her eyes widen.  “Good God, why?”

He shrugs.  “It’s a great story.  We’d be talking about it, too, if it wasn’t about us.”

She opens her mouth to deny it, then pauses.

She remembers when the Sandbrook case first fell apart, when Alec Hardy was just a name in the paper and what really happened was clouded in uncertainty.  There’d been a lot of talk, even round Broadchurch, about police corruption at worst, incompetence at best, and whispers of a cover-up that whipped through the policing community like fire on a windy day.

She slowly closes her mouth because she’d been right there with everyone else, at the station and in the coffee shops, clucking her tongue and feeling smugly satisfied crimes like that never happened in Broadchurch, and _those_ sorts of things, whatever those coppers had gotten up to in Sandbrook, would never happen here, not while _she_ was on the force.

She sighs.  “Well, just try to stay away from it as much as you can, awright?  And trust me and Hardy, because we _will_ tell you the truth.  We never had an affair.”

He doesn’t look at her but tilts his head in what Ellie hopes is agreement.

“Tom,” she says firmly.

He gives her a startled look, takes in her expression and straightens. “Awright,” he says.

She beams and holds out her arms.

He leans into her and she hugs him tight.  “Never forget I love you more than chocolate,” she whispers in his ear.

“I won’t,” he mutters.

She closes her eyes and prays his words will always be true.

*/*/*/*/*

Hardy walks into what used to be Jack Marshall’s shop and looks round almost helplessly.

What do you take with you when you’re going for dinner, but it’s not really a social occasion and it’s not strictly a working thing?

It’s not like he hasn’t eaten meals with Miller since that first dinner, back when she was just an annoying DS and Joe wasn’t even a real suspect.  But Tess had endlessly lectured him on the protocols when going to dinner with friends versus dinner with acquaintances, and with “we’re not exactly _friends_ , Hardy” still ringing in his ears, he decided it might be better to stop and get something so he doesn’t arrive empty-handed.

He’s wandering the aisles, wondering where to begin when his phone rings.

Isabella.

“What?” he says, distracted.

She’s used to him by now and his greeting doesn’t faze her.  “Hi.  Just wanted to let you know I’ve set up an interview with NBC News for the day after tomorrow.”

“On a Saturday?  Don’t people have something better to do?”

“Sadly, no,” Isabella says drily, “at least not while I’m assigned to manage the media requests for you.”

“Shouldn’t this shite be slowing down by now?”

“Usually we’re finished within two weeks.  You, apparently, are the gift that keeps on giving.”

He pauses in mid-stride, frowning.  “What the hell does that even mean?”

“It means the story is still selling papers and people are still clicking on websites and that means money for the media companies.  They’re not quite ready to stop milking the cash cow.”

“Well, how can I get it to stop making money for them?” he growls, frustrated.

“Try being charming.  That might throw them off.”

He rolls his eyes and wonders if Isabella and Miller were separated at birth.  He hopes they never meet while he’s in the room.  Or while he’s out of the room, either.

“Anyway,” Isabella says with a chuckle, “can you drop by tomorrow?  They’ve sent the questions they want to ask and we should go over them.”

“I won’t be back in Sandbrook until tomorrow evening,” he says.

“Won’t be--where are you?”

“Broadchurch.  Trying to decide if I need to take anything to a working dinner.”

“Working?” Isabella says sharply.  “Are you back with the Broadchurch police department?”

He curses himself for his distraction and letting too much slip through to her. 

“I’ve been asked to look over a case file,” he says, which is true enough, “but we’re eating dinner first.”

Isabella hums skeptically, then says, “Take wine.  That’s always acceptable, even if you’re working afterwards.”

“There’ll be--” he hesitates. He’s not intentionally hiding the fact he’s having dinner with Miller, but for some reason, he doesn’t feel comfortable sharing that information with Isabella.

“There’ll be?” she prompts.

“There’ll be people there who can’t drink.”

“Sparkling grape juice so you can pretend it’s wine.  Or some other flavour, if that works better.”

The thought isn’t appealing, but he’s going to be late if he doesn’t stop waffling.

“Awright,” he says.

Isabella sighs.  “You’re welcome, Hardy.  Look, what time are you going to be back tomorrow?  We can get take away and go over the questions, and then do final prep at nine the next morning.  The interview’s scheduled for ten, by the way.”

He huffs out a sigh.  “I should be there by six.”

“Perfect.  Do you want me to pick you up at the train?”

“Na, I’ll meet you at the police station.”

She groans.  “Here, again?  I swear I spend more time in this place than I do at home.”

“Don’t we all?” he growls as he glances at his watch.  “I’m going to be late.  I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She sighs.  “Yes, Hardy.”

He hesitates, then reluctantly says, “Thank you for the suggestion.  About the sparkling juice, I mean.”

“You’re welcome,” she says, sounding pleased and surprised, and he thinks he really needs to work on his manners.

He pockets his phone, grabs a couple of different flavours of sparkling juice and as he pays for it, he hopes he hasn’t just made another social gaffe that’s only going to make Miller laugh at him.  Again.

*/*/*/*/*

She scowls.  “This isn’t a social thing,” she scolds.  “Besides, I think we’re long past these kinds of things when you’re invited to dinner.”

He raises an eyebrow.  “This is only the second time I’ve been invited to dinner,” he says mildly and could bite out his tongue because she abruptly turns her back and he knows she’s remembering the first time, when neither of them knew about Joe, when she was still in her perfect, happy marriage with the perfect, happy man Joe was pretending to be.

As if he needed to feel even shittier than he already does, he thinks wearily.

She turns and forces an obviously strained ‘hostess’ smile.  “Don’t just stand there, come in.  Dinner’s almost ready.”

He follows her into the kitchen and exchanges warily awkward nods with Tom.  Fred runs into the room on his chubby toddler legs and stops and stares at Hardy, eyes wide beneath the unruly curls he’s inherited from his mother.

Things are a little chaotic after that, with Miller and Tom trying to finish cooking the meal while Fred scampers round underfoot.  In the end, it all comes together, like meals always seem to do, and they settle at the table where they eat with a minimum of conversation.  Hardy notices Tom is only sparingly sipping at the sparkling juice, obviously not enjoying it but doing his best not to be rude.

Hardy takes pity on him, takes a drink from his own glass and pulls a face.

“This was not a good year,” he announces and surprises a smile out of Tom.

“It’s fine,” Miller automatically assures him, then scowls as Hardy lifts an eyebrow and Tom gives her an incredulous stare.  “Awright,” she says, “it’s far too sweet.”

Hardy nods.  “Think the other one would be any better, Tom?”

Tom shakes his head.  “I’ve tried it before.  It’s even worse.”

“Well,” Hardy sighs, “I didn’t get my heart fixed just so I could turn my blood to pure sugar.  How about some water?  And I’ll have to remember to tell Isabella her advice was shite.”

“Isabella?” Ellie asks, surprised.  “What does Isabella have to do with anything?”

“She rang while I was wondering what to bring.  I didn’t think wine and nothing else would be appropriate, since Tom and Fred wouldn’t be able to drink it.”

“And you listened to her?” Miller says, a puzzled half-smile curving her mouth.  “I didn’t think you listened to anybody.”

“I was desperate,” Hardy says drily.  “Besides, she’s been navigating me through all these bloody interviews without a hitch.  I didn’t think she’d steer me wrong.”

“Boy, were you wrong,” Tom says.

Hardy turns a baleful stare in his direction then surprises him with a smile.  “Story of my life, really,” he says.

They’re all more relaxed after that and the meal passes pleasantly enough.  Ellie and Tom begin clearing up and Hardy takes Fred into the living room where he tries to keep the toddler amused until the others are finished.

“Awright,” Miller says as she walks in to the living room, then stalls as Hardy looks up at her from where he’s sitting cross-legged on the floor with Fred, a variety of toys strewn round them.

She briskly shakes her head and says, “Ready to get some work done?”

Hardy gives Fred one last toy and puts a warm hand on the boy’s shoulder before he pushes himself to his feet. 

“I’ve been ready to get some work done for the last seven weeks,” he growls and follows her back to the dining room.

*/*/*/*/*

They read in silence, methodically, Ellie first then Hardy.  Hardy piles the finished papers neatly beside him.

She watches as he reads the last one, glasses perched on his nose, forehead wrinkled in a frown, dark eyes moving intently over the page, bottom lip thrust out in a thoughtful pout.

Even though it’s only been seven weeks since she last saw him--less than that, if she counts when he was on the telly a few days ago--it feels like forever.  He still looks the same, although he’s gone back to the light scruff he’d sported when he first arrived in Broadchurch.  His hair, while neat when he arrived at her door, is now sticking up in tufts from where he’s run his fingers through it during the evening.

She mentally rolls her eyes at herself.  For God’s sake, it’s only been seven weeks; of course he still looks the same.

He puts the last piece of paper neatly on the pile then turns his intense gaze on her.  She immediately shifts into work mode.

“I wasn’t expecting that,” she says.  “Did you know?”

“I did some research at the Sandbrook library yesterday, before meeting Daisy,” he says, taking off his glasses and dropping them on the table in front of him and rubbing his eyes.

“So you knew Archie Reynolds had confessed to killing Francesca?  That he’s in prison right now for it?”

He nods.  “It was, apparently, big news at the time.”  His voice is dry.

“So why didn’t you tell me?  Why bother coming all this way?”

He shrugs, frowning.  “I was curious to see what Dottie had given you as a case file.”

He falls silent, staring into space, his frown deepening into a thoughtful scowl.

“And?” Ellie finally prompts.

“The body was never found.  Dottie Livingstone told me she wanted to find Francesca.  She never said she wanted to find Francesca’s killer.”

Ellie’s mouth opens into a soundless ‘oh’.

Hardy turns his intense eyes back to her.  ‘‘I think we need to have another conversation with Dottie.  When can you come to Sandbrook?”

She frowns, mentally flipping through her work and home schedules.  “I can’t this coming week, but I should be able to arrange things for the week after.  I can have Lucy take the boys for a couple nights.”

He nods absently.  “Fine.  That’ll give me time to see if I can call in a favour or two in order to get access to both the original case files and to Archie Reynolds.”

She eyes him thoughtfully.  “What’s bothering you?” she asks.

He frowns, his expression once again distant and thoughtful.  “The confession.”

*/*/*/*/*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this fic is going places I hadn't expected... :)
> 
> The next update may be a little while (as in possibly more than a week) as I need to sit down and do some actual plotting (I KNOW! I'm shocked, too!) before I can finish the next chapter. I'll get it posted as soon as I can.


	5. Chapter 5

Tess asks him to drop by early the following Friday for his evening with Daisy and greets him at the door with a half-smile that he might have thought was nervous if it hadn’t been overlaid with her usual smugness.  She leads him in to the living room and he glances round, noticing the last of the family pictures that included him have been removed.

For God’s sake, he thinks, even _Miller_ still has pictures of Joe about her place.

He pulls in a deep breath and turns, his face expressionless, and waits for her to speak.

She rubs her forehead and says, “There’s no gentle way of telling you this...Dave’s moving in.  In three days.”

He stills, unblinking, letting her words and everything they mean sink into him.  He’s both devastated and blank--the same blankness he’s felt ever since he returned from Broadchurch, that everything is just... _finished_.

He lifts his shoulders in a barely perceptible movement.

“Took him long enough,” he says.

Tess’ face tightens into a glare.  “You need to get your stuff out of here.”

That throws him.

“I have no place for it.  I’m still living in a hotel.”

“It’s been almost two years.  You need to clear it out.  We’re going to need the room for when Dave’s kids visit.”

He rolls his eyes.

“Fine,” he growls.  “Can I at least have a week or two to find a place to store things?  You could have given me more warning.”

She glances away and his eyes widen.

“Oh,” he says softly, “the wife just found out, did she?  This wasn’t planned.  Kicked Dave out, has she?”

“We’d thought the time was almost right, and then you had to stir everything up again, and now we’ve been stuck in this never-ending media shit storm!  Do you think we’d want to move in together while people are still busily sniffing round about the pendant?  Especially now you’ve told the world you were covering for a couple of DSs who were having an affair.  God, Alec, why couldn’t you have just kept your mouth _shut_?”

He grits his teeth against the bitter words he wants to spew out.

He doesn’t love her anymore--hadn’t loved her for a long time now, even if he can’t pinpoint the moment it all changed.  He still loves the person he’d once known, the woman he’d worked with, the woman he’d married, the woman who’d had his child.

But _this_ woman standing in front of him--this woman who had stopped for a shag rather than deliver vital evidence to the police station, this woman who had only been too glad to let him take the fall for both her and her lover, this woman who had given up on the case and would have let three murderers walk free because she didn’t want to be dropped in it...

This woman he doesn’t love at all.

He’s not even sure if he _likes_ her.

“I’ll get my stuff out as soon as I can make arrangements,” he growls.

“There’s not much, really,” she says, more kindly now.

The fact he doesn’t have much to show for the last twenty years says more about his life than he cares to admit.

At least he has Daisy.

“How’s Daisy taking the news?” he asks.

Tess flushes.  “She’s fine.  She likes Dave.”

He ducks his head and an uneasy silence descends between them.

“Rebecca’s been asking if I know who you’re protecting,” she says suddenly.

His gaze snaps to hers, his face expressionless.  “Yah?”

“I told her I didn’t know.  The media just keeps asking questions.”  She swallows.  “If we’re not careful, somebody’s going to figure it out.”

He gives a small sigh.  “I’m amazed Rebecca hasn’t figured it out herself.”

“She’s pretty angry,” Tess says.

Hardy shoves his hands in his pocket and stares at the floor. 

“She trusted me,” he finally mutters, and gratefully turns as the front door opens and Daisy walks into the house.

*/*/*/*/*

They go out to dinner since Hardy’s still staying at the Rosewood Inn.  There are still a couple of stray photographers who seem to have nothing better to do than follow him around and snap pictures.  Going in to the Rosewood Inn with a young girl would only get him back in the forefront of the news for all the wrong reasons, and the truth of it wouldn’t matter.  He thinks of Jack Marshall and hides a shudder.

Talk with Daisy doesn’t exactly flow easily, even after almost two months.  He hopes that will change once he finally gets a job and a flat.  It’s difficult to have the conversations they need to have in a restaurant or while they’re walking in the park, even if he wasn’t currently under the fading glare of the media spotlight.  It’s not like the isolation offered by Broadchurch; in Sandbrook, there’s always somebody nearby.

“I’m thinking about looking for a flat next week,” he says as they stroll back to the house.

“Are you really going to stay?” she asks and he raises an eyebrow at her almost snide skepticism.

He doesn’t blame her. 

“I’m hoping that now things seem to be calming down that I’ll get a job back at the precinct.”

“And if you don’t?”

He’s hesitates then sighs.  “I need to work,” he says gently.  “If not here, then I’ll try to find something closer than Broadchurch.”

She shrugs and looks away.

The silence weighs heavy as they walk, then he says, “You okay with Dave moving in?”

“Yah, he’s all right.  He’s good at maths.”

His stomach twists, and he remembers that one reporter asking him if it had all been worth the price he’s paid.

He’s glad she’s not there to ask him now.

*/*/*/*/*

Ellie arrives in Sandbrook early Monday afternoon and they meet for a late lunch.

“Did we get access to the original case files?” she asks before popping a chip in her mouth.

“They’ve been archived,” he says, poking suspiciously at his salad.  “It’s going to take a couple weeks to pull them back.”

She’s surprised then pulls a face.  “I suppose it has been over ten years.”

“Plus the case is closed and neither of us is working for the South Mercia constabulary.  Definitely not high priority.  I just hope they haven’t destroyed the physical evidence.”

“I’m surprised they’ve even agreed to let us see the files without filing a Freedom of Information request.”

He shrugs.  “A friend pulled some strings,” he says and takes a bite of salad.

“You have friends?” Ellie asks and he rolls his eyes.  She chuckles and says, “What is it about the confession that’s bothering you?”

“It’s too vague in the areas that matter, yet too specific in others for it to be a complete lie.”

She raises an eyebrow.  “You think he’s taking the blame for somebody else?”

He shrugs.  “I don’t know.  He claims he doesn’t remember most of the night, yet he confessed almost immediately when they finally questioned him.”  He takes a bite of salad and frowns thoughtfully as he chews.  “Mind you, what was in Dottie’s file was a summary rather than Reynolds’ actual statement.  There may be more details once we can delve into the actual case files.”

“When do we see Dottie?”

“Tomorrow. Ten-thirty.”

“Can we get in to see Archie Reynolds?”

“He’s been in the infirmary for the last week.  Pneumonia.  No visitors until further notice.”

“So this is a pretty wasted trip for me.”

“Might be.  If you want to go home--”

“I drove all this way, I may as well stay and talk to Dottie.”

“Right.”

They eat in silence until Ellie says, “So what should we do today?”

“Isabella wants to see me at three, so we can go to the station after this.  I’ll show you round, if you’d like, introduce you to some of my friends.”

“You have friends?” she asks again, this time with a teasing smile.

He stares, dark eyes wide and unfathomable before he gives a slight upward movement of his shoulders.  “I suppose ‘friends’ might be too strong a word.  How about ‘people who owe me favours’?”

She points a chip at him.  “Now, _that_ I believe.”

*/*/*/*/*

It’s a beautiful day and they’re not far from the station, which makes the walk almost pleasant, even if they’re in a city rather than on the cliffs of Broadchurch.

They’ve only been walking for a few minutes when, “Alec Hardy, as I live and breathe!”

Hardy closes his eyes and groans before turning round with a scowl.  Ellie gives him a curious look and turns as well.

Her eyes pop open as she takes in the handsome man striding towards them, his full lips curved in a wide, toothy grin, his hand outstretched in greeting.  He looks to be in his late thirties or early forties, with closely cropped blonde hair and bright green eyes.  He’s not overly tall, but has broad shoulders and a well-toned physique beneath his button-down shirt and jeans.  A frisson of sexual awareness shivers down Ellie’s spine, something she hasn’t really felt since Joe was arrested.

She pushes the thought of her soon-to-be-ex-husband out of her head and concentrates on this handsome stranger.

“Welcome home!” he says.

Hardy eyes the proffered hand with the same suspicion he’d turned on his salad then pointedly ignores it as he says, “Will,” with all the pleasure he usually reserves for speaking with Ollie.  Ellie presses her lips together against a snicker even as she resists the urge to smack him on the shoulder for being so damn rude.

Hardy’s reaction doesn’t faze the other man.  Will lowers his hand and flicks his eyes over to Ellie and lets his gaze linger with interest on her wide eyes and appreciative smile.

Hardy glances between the two of them and his eyes narrow.

“You weren’t quite so friendly the last time I saw you,” Hardy growls.  “As I recall, you told me this town couldn’t see the back of me fast enough.”

Will waves his words away.  “I was doing me job, Hardy.”

“Your job?  Weren’t you the one who called me an incompetent git who couldn’t detect his own arsehole even if someone guided me to it?”

Miller bites her lip against a laugh and Will slowly smiles at her.

“To be fair,” Will drawls, “you were in a bit of a muddle at the time.  But you found the murderer--plural, really--of those poor girls, just like I always knew you would.”

“Really?  Is that why you demanded my resignation?”

He shrugs without taking his eyes away from Ellie.  “You fucked up, Hardy.  There needed to be consequences.”  He smiles even more widely.  “Will Seymour,” he says and holds out his hand.

Ellie practically simpers as she shakes his hand, her heart beating rapidly, her stomach fluttering.

“Ellie Miller,” she says, and is pleased when she doesn’t actually stammer.

“Ah, I suspected you were the elusive Ellie Miller.  Here to hold his lordship’s hand, are you?”

“Oh, God, no!”

“Ah,” Will says with satisfaction, “brilliant!  Does that mean you’re free for dinner tonight?”   He leans closer and drops his voice to a seductive rumble.  “I promise I won’t mention the old git over there.”

Ellie blushes and almost giggles as she ducks her head and nervously pushes a lock of hair behind her ear.

“Yah, I am, and that’s the best offer I’ve heard all day,” she says.

Hardy abruptly turns his back, his lips pressed into a tight line as he fights the urge to snarl.

Even he can recognize flirting when he sees it.

Well, at least in this case.

His eyes narrow as he tightens his lips, and turns back to the pair who are now exchanging phone numbers while Will is suggesting places to go, depending on what she likes.

“Chips,” Hardy says brusquely, “no salad.”  He raises an eyebrow and taps his watch.  “Confirm your plans later; we’re on the clock.”

“Oh?” Will says casually, “I thought you were unemployed?”

“Oh,” Ellie says, “we’re--”

“Not discussing it,” Hardy says sharply.  “Especially not with the likes of you.  _C’mon_ , Miller.”

Ellie rolls her eyes and pulls a face at the long, narrow back now striding away from them.

“Sorry,” she says, with a placating smile at Will.  “Call me later, yah?”

“Count on it.”

She reluctantly hurries after Hardy and barely resists the urge to slap him on the back of the head.

“ _Why_ are you such a _knob_?” she snaps.

“He’s a reporter.”

She gasps and stops in her tracks.  He takes another three steps before he stops and turns, an irritated scowl on his face.

“So, what?  You saying the only reason he’s asking me out is because of Joe?”

The confusion on his face makes her feel a little better. 

“I have no idea why he asked you out.  You wanted to know why I’m being a knob.  _That’s_ why.  Look up his editorials at the height of the controversy over Sandbrook if you really want to know our history.”

She sniffs, but is somewhat placated although she’s not going to let him know that.

They both glance back and see Will standing, watching after them.  He smirks at Hardy and lifts a hand in farewell.

Ellie turns away with an embarrassed smile while Hardy’s scowl deepens as they start walking again.

“Don’t tell him anything about the case we’re working on,” Hardy snaps.

Now she does smack his arm.  “For God’s sake, I know how to keep my mouth shut round a reporter!”

His eyebrow rises as he looks at her and she suddenly remembers Ollie and bloody Twitter and she winces.

“Warning noted,” she mutters.

He nods and they continue walking.

They’ve only gone a few blocks when another voice calls out, “Alec!”

Hardy’s reaction to this voice, however, is much different.  He turns to face the woman with a genuinely welcoming look on his face.

The woman is plump and matronly, staring at Hardy like she’s doubting her eyes.

“It _is_ you!” she says and flings herself at him, catching him in a tight hug.

He staggers, recoiling a little with surprise before he wraps his long arms round her and closes his eyes as he holds her tight.  Ellie’s stomach gives a small lurch as she sees the emotions washing over his face.

“I can’t believe it’s you!” the woman says, slowly releasing him and stepping away.

“It’s good to see you, too, Rachel,” he says and smiles, wide and sincere, and Ellie’s stomach lurches again.

She clears her throat.  Pointedly.  He glances at her, his smile turning to a puzzled frown.

Rachel glances between the two of them and rolls her eyes.  “Same old Alec,” she says fondly as she smiles at Ellie and holds out her hand.  “Rachel Bellamy.”

“Ellie Miller.”

Rachel’s eyes widen.  “ _The_ Ellie Miller?”

“Er…yes?” she says with an embarrassed shrug.

“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised,” Rachel says chattily.  “The two of you are talked about practically in tandem.  I suppose you can’t just walk away from a partnership like that, yah?” 

She chuckles comfortably and doesn’t seem to notice as they exchange uncomfortable glances.

“Where are you living now?” Rachel asks Hardy.  “Are you working yet?”

“No, not yet.”

“Are you seriously thinking about coming back here to live?  After everything that’s happened?”

He ducks his head and lifts his shoulders in a shrug.  “Daisy’s here.”

“Right.  Well...you know we’d welcome you back with open arms.”

“But not everybody.”

“We were a town divided--you know that better than anybody!  That case ripped everyone apart, whether you knew the family or not.  And now!  To learn Ricky Gillespie was involved?”  Rachel shakes her head.  “I’m not sure the truth has made anything better.”

Hardy’s lips twist.  “I wasn’t welcome when I couldn’t solve the case.  Now I’m not welcome because we did?”

Rachel sighs and shakes her head.  “It’s Sandbrook.  But never mind that now.  Where are you staying?  How about the two of you coming round for dinner tonight?  Charlie would love to see you, Alec, and he’d definitely love to meet you, Ellie!”

“Oh,” Ellie says, startled, “thank you, but I already have plans.”

“Ah.  Another time, then.”  She turns bright eyes back to Hardy, who gives a small nod.  “Good.  The usual time.  Now, where did you say you were staying?”

“I didn’t.”

“Alec,” she says in mock-warning.

“Rosewood Inn,” he mutters.

Rachel wrinkles her nose.  “Oi--there?  That’s the worst place in town!  If you feel the need for clean sheets, come bunk in with Charlie and me.  Mackenzie’s gone up to London.”

“What!  When?”

“Six months gone.  House is a bit empty without her, but it means we have a spare bed if you need it.”

“Rachel--”

“Think about it, all right, love?  I’ll leave you two to get on with your business.  Tonight--don’t forget!”

“I’ll remember.”

“Good.”  She turns to Ellie.  “Nice meeting you.”  She grins at Hardy.  “Charles is going to be thrilled!”  She leans up, kisses his cheek then bustles away.

Ellie gapes after her and gives him a considering look.  He’s staring after Rachel with a bemused expression, shaking his head.

“Wee Mackenzie gone to London,” he mutters.  “Can’t believe she grew up that much while I was gone.”  He looks at her.  “Let’s hope we don’t run in to anybody else.  Isabella will give us a right good bollocking if we’re late.”

Ellie’s eyes narrow.  “You never worried about that with me!”

He shrugs.  “You give me right good bollockings for no reason at all,” he drawls and once again begins to walk.

She rolls her eyes and hurries after him.

*/*/*/*/*

Hardy leads her through the police station, pausing to introduce her to a couple of detectives, until they finally reach Isabella’s office, where he knocks on the open door and walks inside.

Ellie looks with interest at the woman behind the desk.  Isabella’s an attractive brunette and younger than Ellie had expected, mid-thirties at most, but she looks as polished and professional as Ellie had imagined a public relations expert would be.  Isabella’s professional demeanour is in direct contrast to the lively amusement on her face as she watches Hardy lower himself into a chair with a resigned, albeit disgusted, expression.

“Oh, come on, Hardy, you should be used to our little chats by now,” Isabella says before turning a bright smile on Ellie.  “You must be the elusive Ellie Miller.”

Ellie’s answering smile turns a little strained.  “Is that everybody’s nickname for me?”

“Only those of us trying to track you down for an interview.”  She sits up.  “Is that why you’re here?”

“Bloody hell, no!”

“She’s in town on business,” Hardy growls.

“With you?”  Isabella leans forward.  “Is that why you were in Broadchurch a week or so ago?  Are the two of you working on another case?”

Hardy rolls his eyes.  “Let the media feeding frenzy die down, Isabella.  Don’t you have other people who would _enjoy_ having you make their lives a living hell?”

“Hardy!” Ellie scolds, but Isabella only laughs.

“Probably,” Isabella says cheerfully, “but there’s no one I enjoy torturing more.  Unfortunately, your dreams are coming true.  The only thing I have this week is from the producers of _Close to Home_.  Since the Sandbrook Three are being sentenced on Thursday, they’re updating the episode to include interviews with them.  It’s airing again a week Friday.”

Ellie’s eyes widen.  “That’s the first anniversary,” she says.  “Danny,” she clarifies for Isabella.

Isabella gives her a sympathetic smile.  “I doubt that’s a coincidence.  I’m sorry.”

Ellie nods, hot tears pricking her eyes.

Isabella continues, “The media’s going to be out in force on Thursday, so be prepared if you’re at the sentencing.”

“Of course I’ll be at the sentencing,” Hardy says.  “It’s almost over.  I’m going to see it through.”

“Just so you know.”

“Awright.  But nothing else?” he says hopefully.

“No, nothing.  I expect there’ll be a flurry of requests for statements on Thursday, but we’ve got some standard responses all ready.”  She smiles.  “Looks like your life is getting back to normal.”

“Finally.”

“Maybe Rebecca will even give you a job once you’re not talking to the media all day.”

He rolls his eyes.  “One can only hope,” he mutters.

“Did she always hate your guts?” Ellie asks.

“She doesn’t hate me,” Hardy says, surprised.  “She’s just angry.  You should be able to relate to that.”

“Fine.  But why is she so angry with you?  I mean, I understand being angry, but all of this seems a bit over the top.”

Hardy ducks his head, pulls in a deep breath through his nose, then looks from Ellie to Isabella and back.

“Rebecca was my first partner when I arrived in Sandbrook,” he says.  “We were partners for over a year.  We worked well together.  Still do when she isn’t struggling to keep herself from wringing my neck.”  He glances again at the two women, and his mouth quirks up.  “I think you two understand that, at least.  We remained friends even after we shifted to new partners.  I knew she’d go far.  She could go farther still--but Sandbrook stalled her career, too.  There were a lot of rumors right after the case fell apart.”

He frowns, his eyes sad.  “She trusted me, and I...didn’t tell her everything.  I lied to her by omission.”  He pauses, considering.  “That’s probably what hurts her the most.”  He pulls in a deep breath through his nose and shrugs.  “At the time, of course, she was angry because she thought I’d fucked up, but she was more worried I’d finally gone mad if I was stopping for a drink rather than rushing vital evidence to the station.”

“So why’d she fire you?”  Ellie asks.

“No choice.”  He turns wide, bottomless brown eyes towards her.  “Read your new friend’s columns.  Karen White was almost kind compared to him.  Rebecca would have lost her job, too, if she hadn’t done something about me.”

“New friend?” Isabella asks with interest.

Hardy sends a warning look in her direction just as Ellie’s phone rings.

“Speaking of my new friend,” she says with a wide smile when she sees the number.  She excuses herself and steps out of the office.

Hardy watches her go, then realizes Isabella is watching him intently.

A flush rises in his cheeks, but he raises an eyebrow and doesn’t look away.

She smirks and says, “What are _your_ plans for tonight, Hardy, since it sounds like Ellie’s going to be busy?”

“I have my own dinner plans,” he says flatly.

“Ah, right.  Of course.”

Ellie returns, her eyes shining.  “I need to go shopping.  He said I’ll need a pretty frock.”

“Go to High Street, it’s the main shopping district,” Isabella says.  “Turn right when you go out the main doors.  It’s four blocks over.”

“Brilliant,” Ellie says and turns to Hardy.  “We’re finished for today, yah?”

He gives a slight nod.

“Brilliant,” she says again and hurries away.

Hardy looks after her, bittersweet regret washing over him.  He looks at Isabella and stands.

“I’m assuming we’re done here?” he says.

“Yes,” she says.  “Have a lovely dinner tonight,” and Hardy flushes again as he realizes she doesn’t actually believe he has plans.

As he walks to the door, she says, “Remember, the press will be all over that courtroom on Thursday.”

“I’m not likely to forget,” he growls and walks out the door.

*/*/*/*/*

Half-way to the shops, Ellie starts to have second thoughts.  She considers calling Will back and insisting on going somewhere where her usual slacks, shirt and sensible shoes would be perfectly acceptable.  It’s been years since she’s needed to buy a dress and the realization makes her a little sad.  She used to enjoy putting on a pretty dress and showing off her legs which she’d always privately considered her best asset.

That gradually faded away after she married Joe, and she begins to wonder if everything that had happened could have been prevented if she’d tried to be more attractive to him. 

She pulls herself up short at the thought.

He hadn’t cheated on her with another woman, like Mark had done.  He had ‘fallen in love’--she almost spits at the phrase--with an eleven-year-old boy.  That was entirely on Joe and had absolutely nothing to do with her.

She lifts her chin and continues on, even as her initial excitement at being asked out on a date--a date of all things!--by a man as attractive as Will Seymour begins to give way to anxiety.  She remembers her night out with Claire and the unfortunate shag at the end of it.  That wasn’t that long ago, and she’s still not sure she’s really ready to start dating.  Hell, it’s only coming up to a year that Danny’s been gone! 

So much has changed in the last twelve months...

She shakes her head.

It’s only dinner, and she’s not going to be drunk and despairing and out with a woman with a hidden agenda of her own.  Besides, it’ll be a nice change to sit across from a handsome man who actually knows how to make conversation.

She pushes down her uncertainty, straightens her shoulders, and forges on to face the perils of dress shopping.

She finds something she thinks will do:  a dark blue dress, fitted to show off her once-again-slender waist.  The stress from having a husband confess to murder had slimmed her down to her pre-Fred weight again.  She wishes it had been for a better reason.

She shakes off her melancholy, finds some shoes to wear with the dress, and glances at her watch as she leaves the shoe shop.

There’s still a couple hours before she needs to be back at the hotel to get ready.  She walks into one of the shops to ask for directions and heads to the library.

*/*/*/*/*

Hardy arrives on Rachel and Charlie’s doorstep carrying his usual offering of pastries for afters--something he _didn’t_ have to agonize about--and is welcomed like the prodigal son.

The meal is delicious as always, and Hardy finds himself, for the first time in at least two years, relaxing and enjoying himself with people who genuinely like him without the complications that, well, knowing him usually creates.

It’s a pleasant evening, filled with genuine laughter and warmth, and Hardy’s torn between revelling in it, and holding himself aloof because he knows it’s only a matter of time before it’s torn away from him again.

By the end of it, he’s promised to be back with Daisy on Sunday when Mackenzie is visiting from London, and Rachel and Charlie have offered him the use of their cellar to store the belongings he has to move out of Tess’ house.

He wanders back to the Rosewood, lifts a hand in greeting to the night clerk, and lets himself into his room.

While the thought of Miller on a date with bloody Will Seymour has been scratching at the back of his mind all night, he has to admit he feels... _pleased_ as he strips off his clothes and gets ready for bed.

As he slides beneath the covers he thinks it may actually be possible to return to some semblance of his former life.

*/*/*/*/*

Ellie lets herself into her hotel room and thoughtfully considers her evening as she kicks her new shoes off her aching feet and flops backward on the bed.

Will is as charming and engaging as she’d hoped, and he certainly isn’t at a loss when it comes to making conversation.  She never once had the urge to call him a knob or a wanker or to even raise her voice at him.

Of course, the subtly probing questions did make her want to raise an eyebrow or two, but she resisted as she gave him glib non-answers.  She isn’t sure if she should thank Hardy or yell at him for putting her on her guard.  Will had been obviously puzzled by her refusal of anything more than a good-night kiss, which had been as practiced and skilful as she expected, a pleasurable experience that still left her curiously unmoved.

Reading several of the editorials Will published during the height of the Sandbrook scandal hadn’t helped.  Hardy had, as usual, downplayed the extent of the vitriol levelled against him and it took all her self-control not to demand Will explain why he’d been so determined to see Hardy suffer for every setback in that case.

She pushes herself off the bed with a sigh, strips off her clothes and gets ready for bed.

Knowing Hardy, she thinks as she slips beneath the covers, he’d probably insulted Will during another case and it had festered from there.

She chuckles at the thought and turns out the light.

*/*/*/*/*

They meet at nine for a late breakfast, and Ellie deliberately doesn’t bring up her evening with Will.

Hardy deliberately doesn’t ask.

They eat breakfast with a slightly uncomfortable air and a minimum of conversation before setting out for Dottie’s house, arriving at exactly ten-thirty.

Dottie’s bright eyes dart from one to the other as she sets the tea down on the kitchen table and sits across from them.

“Well?  Are you going to help me?” she says.

Hardy leans forward, resting his loosely clasped hands on the table.

“You didn’t tell me somebody confessed to killing your daughter,” he says, his voice gentle, his Scottish lilt almost a purr.

“I thought you’d remember, once you had time to search your memory.  You were in Sandbrook at the time, weren’t you?”

“Aye, but ten years is a long time, and it wasn’t my case.”

“Ten years, nine months and one day.  And no.  It wasn’t.”

Ellie raises an eyebrow.  “It sounds like you think...what?  It would have been solved sooner if it had been Hardy’s case?”

“No,” Dottie replies. “I think it would have been solved _correctly_.”

Hardy and Miller stare, their eyes widening.

“You don’t think Archie Reynolds is guilty?” Hardy slowly asks.

Dottie leans forward with a brittle smile.  “I don’t think Francesca is dead.  Tea?”

*/*/*/*/*


	6. Chapter 6

Despite her bravado, Dottie’s hands shake as she lifts her cup to her mouth.  Hardy doesn’t think she actually takes a sip but the action seems to steady her nerves.  She puts the mug back on the table and looks from one to the other.

“I’m _not_ a lonely old woman, delusional with grief,” she says firmly. “I also don’t think she’s alive simply because they never found her and I never had a memorial service or a funeral.  All that _closure_ bullshit.”  She looks at Hardy.  “No offense.”

He ducks his head, tightly pressing his lips together to prevent himself from smiling.  Miller looks back and forth between them, a puzzled frown crinkling her forehead.

He clears his throat and says, “Awright.  Why don’t you start from the beginning?”

Dottie sighs.  “The beginning,” she says softly.  “I wish I knew where that was.”

She sits and stares, her face drawn with grief and disappointment.  The others sit, quietly waiting until she finally begins to speak.

“I married late.  Had Francesca even later.  I was forty.  I hated the name Francesca, but her father insisted we name her after him.”  She gives Ellie a rueful look and shakes her head.  “I got stupid over a man, at that age.  I should have known better.  Anyway, Frank left when she was four. Haven’t seen him since.  Knowing him, I’m sure he’s alive and well and living off someone else’s money.” 

She shakes her head and waves a hand.

“Never mind.  He has nothing to do with this.  Francesca didn’t even remember him after a while.  He didn’t do much with her anyway so his leaving barely mattered.  I had a good job, good friends, and she never wanted for anything.  I spent as much time with her as possible, signed her up for sports and dance and art and anything else that caught her attention.  She was bright and friendly, popular, with a tight-knit circle of friends, some of whom she’d met at her first child-minder’s.  They were friends right up until the day she disappeared.”

A fond smile curves her lips.

“The AlphaBetties,” she says softly.  She looks at Hardy and Ellie’s expressions and chuckles.  “They were five and had just learned their letters.  Elena, Francesca and Ginger--E, F, G. There were four more by the time she disappeared:  Della, Cora, Bianca...and Archie Reynolds.”  She shakes her head. “I don’t know how Archie felt about the nickname, but Elena, Francesca and Ginger were only six when they met him, and the group of girls just sort of...absorbed him.  Or maybe they just never met another ‘A’ willing to do whatever Francesca wanted.”

Her smile fades.

“Too bad they don’t stay children.”

Her lips twist and she again picks up her cup but lowers it before it reaches her mouth.

“Francesca changed when she was, I don’t know, twelve, thirteen, fourteen.”  She shrugs at their confusion.  “It happened so gradually.  It took me a long time to believe my baby would lie to me about, well, everything, really, most of the time for no reason.  At one point, I thought she lied for the sheer joy of the game, to see how long it would take before I figured it out, see how far she could push the boundaries.  Only it just kept getting worse, and then she began the emotional manipulation, and for stupid things:  to get extra money for school, to go to the movies with her friends.  Sometimes, it was just to see me cry.

“I tried everything.  I tried talking to her about why what she was doing was wrong.  We had therapy, both together and alone.  I tried punishing her, taking away the things she enjoyed the most, took her off her teams, kept her away from her friends and activities.  She didn’t really care and nothing made any difference.”

Her eyes flicker away from them as she frowns before continuing.

“By the time she was fifteen, there was no controlling her.  I gave up when she was sixteen.  She left school, got a job--not much of one, but at least it was some money coming in--and I helped her find a flat and paid part of her rent, and over the next five years, we came to a truce.  Of sorts.  I don’t know much about her life, other than what she allowed me to see, and I...quite honestly, I didn’t want to know.

“Then, when she was twenty-one, she went out partying with the AlphaBetties and in the morning, she was gone.  Two years later, Archie Reynolds confessed to murder.”

Hardy and Miller silently digest everything Dottie had told them while she finally takes a gulp of her now-cool tea.

“So why do you think Archie is lying?” Ellie says.  “He said he killed her.”

“I don’t think he knows he’s lying.  I don’t think he truly remembers what happened that night.  From what the other AlphaBetties told me, there were a lot of drugs and alcohol consumed and a great deal of comings and goings as they wound their way through Sandbrook’s night-life.  They all have gaps in their memories and lost sight of each other at different points in the evening, and it’s not like any of them were checking the time.  None of them can really say when Francesca actually disappeared.”

“But why--” Ellie persists, only to be interrupted by Dottie.

“While Francesca and I came to an uneasy truce, you have to remember, she was still self-centred and manipulative.  She mentioned, not long before she disappeared, that she was getting tired of the AlphaBetties, that things weren’t the same anymore.  When I asked why, it boiled down to the fact that they were no longer revolving round her and what she wanted.  They had boyfriends or jobs or were going to school or moving away--that’s why they went out that night, by the way, just them.  Archie was going up to London on the Monday and it was their last chance to all go out together before he left.”

Dottie shrugs helplessly.  “It wouldn’t surprise me if she initially ‘disappeared’ to frighten the others, remind them how important she is to the group, perhaps make Archie stay in Sandbrook, then decided not to come back because she preferred her new life...or because she didn’t think anyone mourned enough.”

Hardy and Miller exchange a glance then Hardy says, “Do you really think your daughter would let an innocent man sit in prison for a crime he didn’t commit?”

Dottie gives him a bitter smile.  “You don’t understand.  She’d _enjoy_ it.”

Ellie’s jaw drops a little before she recovers herself, and Dottie sighs.

“If I’m right, there’s an innocent man in prison, and Francesca is out there, doing God knows what.”  She leans forward, her eyes intent. “I’m seventy-two years old and everyone believes the case is closed--but before I die, I need to _know_.”

*/*/*/*/*

Miller drives him back to the Rosewood Inn in thoughtful silence. 

She puts the car in park and says, “I wasn’t expecting that.”

“No.”

They both scowl, staring sightlessly out the window.

“How are we going to approach this?” Ellie finally asks.

Hardy shrugs.  “The same as any other case.  Read over the case files, re-interview witnesses, see if there’s been any activity under any of Francesca’s government-issued ID.  If Reynolds is guilty, try to get him to lead us to the body.”

“We have no resources behind us.”

“No,” he says, “but we are both still police officers.  We’ll find a way.”

He blinks and shifts in his seat as he gives her an almost apologetic half-smile.  “You know this may start the media frenzy all over again.”

“What?  Us working together?”  Miller says with a small laugh.

He gives a short nod.  “There are still a few stray reporters and paparazzi following me, you know.”

She shrugs.  “We’ve dealt with reporters before.  You’re practically a pro at it now.”

“Still not sure how to deal with it now I’m no longer the villain.”

The odd tone in his voice makes her look at him, but he’s looking out the passenger window, away from her.

She remembers the editorials written by Will, the level of anger in them against the police in general and at Hardy in particular, and tries to think of something to say.

In the end, she says nothing.

*/*/*/*/*

It’s a long drive back to Broadchurch, and Ellie spends most of it chewing over Dottie’s story, and wondering how on earth she and Hardy are going to be able to truly investigate the case if they have no access to police resources.

While technically they’re both still police officers, as Hardy mentioned, they’re lucky he was able to call in a favour or two to get access to the archived files.  Only--and this worries her--if they _were_ to uncover something in those files that would call for the case to be re-opened, would that unconventional access be enough to taint the investigation?

They could, of course, request the files as private citizens, but that might result in a significant amount of information being refused to them.  Or they could go to one of their CS’s and ask them to officially support their activities, using Dottie’s personal request as reason to review the case.

Except Rebecca Cranston has already refused, Hardy isn’t even on Sandbrook’s payroll and is technically still on medical leave from Broadchurch, and Ellie’s a traffic cop in Devon, not a detective.  Her current CS would not take kindly to her taking time to chase a case that’s been closed for almost ten years.

She drums her fingers against the steering wheel, her scowl deepening.

She thinks again about Hardy calling people for favours, and realizes there is one other option.

*/*/*/*/*

Elaine Jenkinson hears her out that evening then says, “You’ll have to come back to Broadchurch and work for me, Ellie.  You _and_ Hardy.”

Ellie blinks.  “You’re willing to back us on this?”

Elaine smiles a little.  “I’ve been waiting for the two of you to ask to come back ever since he left.”  She shakes her head.  “Nobody walks away from a partnership like yours if they can help it.”

Ellie, taken aback, mumbles some response.

“Mind you,” Elaine continues, “my budget is small, as is the number on my force.  I’ll give you a promotion to Detective Inspector, a salary and official backing, and once this investigation is done, I’ll expect you to come back on the job.”  She looks steadily at Ellie.  “Will you be all right with that?”

Ellie hesitates.

“Will the _town_ be all right with that?” she asks cautiously.

Elaine smiles.  “Ever since that episode of _Close to Home_ aired, I’ve been inundated with calls and e-mails, telling me I should get you back.  You and Hardy both.  The two of you did a good thing with the Sandbrook case.  A very good thing.  The least I can do is help you do another one.”

*/*/*/*/*

The next day, Hardy walks into the courtroom and scans for a seat.  As the lead detective in the original case, one is reserved for him--thankfully, because the public is lined up outside the door, hoping to get a peek at the Sandbrook Three.

At least there are no cameras in the courtroom, he thinks as he sinks into his chair, and there should be no surprises today.  He sees Cate Gillespie, sitting beside Lisa Newberry’s parents, all staring unseeingly in front of them.

In the end, Ricky Gillespie and Claire Ripley hadn’t deserved his empathy, but these three...he looks at Cate again and feels a phantom weight in his arms.  He shies away from the memory and shifts his attention to the reporters’ gallery.

The blonde reporter, the one from that American program, catches his eye and nods.  He nods back, although he’s coming up blank on her name.  Then again, more than half the people in that section of the courtroom look familiar.

The door opens and Will Seymour walks in and Hardy can’t keep his lips from curling with dislike.  Miller had gone back to Broadchurch without mentioning a word about her date with the bloody wanker.  He, of course, hadn’t asked, not even last night, when she called to tell him about Elaine’s offer.

He has no right to ask.  It’s none of his business.

They’re not _friends_ , after all.

He ducks his head and scratches at the scruff on his cheek and ruefully admits agreeing to work Dottie’s case with Miller wasn’t the best approach to moving on from her and Broadchurch.  He’s committed now, of course, and he’ll see it through, so long as he can stay in Sandbrook.  He’d promised Daisy.  He’ll find another job once they’re done and he doesn’t think Elaine will have any concerns with that, no matter what she said to Miller.

Besides, staying in Sandbrook will make the break easier when it’s over, and it shouldn’t take long.  He puffs out a small sigh at the thought.  He’ll call Elaine once court is finished.

The defendants are ushered into the dock, and Hardy turns to look at the three people who had turned so many lives upside down.

Ricky looks sullen and defiant, but that’s not surprising.  Hardy doesn’t think the man will ever admit he’s at fault for anything, but at least he agreed to plead guilty to voluntary manslaughter.

Lee looks pale, but calm and almost relieved.  Hardy has to admit he was the only one to show a shred of remorse for what had happened and, to his credit, was the first to plead guilty, even if it was to murder.

His attention shifts to Claire, who’s watching him with those wide, vulnerable eyes.  She pled guilty to being an accomplice to murder, although Hardy is haunted by the questions of just how much rohypnol she’d given Pippa.  Hardy’s gaze doesn’t waver from hers, although his eyes widen when her mouth quirks up in to a smirk and her eyes turn coldly mocking.

Their battle of wills only ends when the judge enters and Claire blinks and turns away.

It’s a petty victory, he thinks as he rises to his feet, but he can’t help feeling a wee bit triumphant anyway.

*/*/*/*/*

The judge speaks at length about the actions of the three people in the dock, lays out his reasoning, cites case law, then, one by one, he speaks to each defendant individually, condemning their actions, and proceeds to hand down identical sentences:  twenty-five to life.

It’s relatively quick, as these things go, then the judge leaves, the Sandbrook Three are escorted back to their holding cells, and the spectators file out of the courtroom.  Hardy stays until even the family is gone, escorted out the back, away from the reporters waiting just outside the door.

He sits, silent and still and alone.

It’s as finished as it can get in his world.  The accused has been found guilty, the judge has passed sentence, there’s nothing left for the copper to do except return to his desk and continue working on the next file.

He looks down at his hands, at his arms, at his chest.  He feels the weight of Pippa’s body against his arms, the water streaming down his body from their waterlogged clothes, the burning in his lungs and throat.

He has no desk, and the only file he has is the one given to him by Dottie Livingstone and Ellie Miller.

He turns his hands palms up, his empty arms aching.

He only has _this_.

*/*/*/*/*

He’s surrounded as soon as he leaves the courtroom, cameras flashing, reporters calling questions.  He pauses only to make the statement Isabella had prepared then pushes through the crowd and is gone.

He wishes he was leaving more than just the reporters behind him.

*/*/*/*/*

He talks to Elaine, who agrees that he can work from Sandbrook for the Livingstone case, but after that, he’ll need to make a decision.  She wants him in Broadchurch a week Monday so he and Miller can brief her on the Livingstone case and she can determine what, if any, resources she can spare.

Miller barely hesitated at the offer, giving in her notice in Devon.  She’ll be back working In Broadchurch as a newly minted Detective Inspector within a fortnight.

He’s pleased for her.  He’ll be back on full pay as soon as his medical records are sent to Broadchurch and the paperwork is approved.

Hope is an unfamiliar emotion now, but that’s exactly what he feels.  Once he’s back on full salary, he’ll be able to find a flat, get his meager belongings out of Rachel and Charlie’s cellar, and begin to rebuild his relationship with Daisy.

He might even be able to start rebuilding his life.

*/*/*/*/*

A week and a day after the sentencing of the Sandbrook Three, the one-year anniversary of Danny’s death dawns clear and hot.  A beautiful summer day.

It’s as horrible as Ellie expected, and never-ending.

She takes Tom and Fred to the Latimers right after breakfast, where they spend some time reminiscing and holding each other as they cry before they make their way to the church where Paul is holding a special memorial service just for Danny.  Mark’s sour-faced about it, but goes along with the same defeated air he’s had ever Joe’s arrest.

The church is packed, as Ellie expected.  She scans the pews and remembers doing something similar before Jack Marshall’s funeral, looking to see if she could tell if somebody was guilty.  Her stomach churns at the memory, wishing she’d thought to look at the man sitting beside her.  Now she nods at the faces that are friendly, skimming over those that are not.  She’s sandwiched between Tom and Beth, with Chloe within reach of her fingers on the other side of Beth.

The service is beautiful, even if the agony of it is wrenching.

They’re drained after it, exhausted, even as more people come and go from Beth and Mark’s.  Ellie knows there will be pictures in the tabloids, taken from across the street and through the hedges and from the trees.

The others finally drift away, leaving only the seven of them:  the Millers and the Latimers, clinging together despite it all.

They don’t mention Joe.

As Ellie, Tom and Fred trudge across the common that night, Ellie wonders where Joe is and whether he’s even now befriending another young boy.  She wonders if he’s making plans to come back.

She shudders, and pulls her sons close, and feels a sudden sense of kinship with Dottie.

*/*/*/*/*

In spite of her physical and emotional exhaustion, Ellie’s restless once she’s put Fred down for the night and Tom, even more silent than usual, is up in his room.  She’s worried about him, and makes a note to herself to share her worries at their family therapy session next week, see if she can get him to talk even if it’s not to her.

She wanders into the living room, collapses on to the couch and props her feet up on the coffee table.  She checks her phone, thinks about calling Hardy, who’s probably sitting in his room at the Rosewood Inn, doing...whatever it is he does when he’s alone.

She tosses the phone on the cushion beside her and picks up the remote.  She turns on the telly and is startled to see the man she’s thinking about on screen.  It takes a moment before she remembers they’re re-airing the _Close to Home_ episode about Sandbrook and Danny.

She quickly flicks through the channels but there’s nothing else that’s going to even remotely distract her.  She sighs and returns to the true crime documentary.  She glances at her watch.  It’s almost finished anyway.  In the back of her mind is the memory of Hardy’s smile the first time it was broadcast, that smile which, when seen in person, is even more devasta--

Unusual, she means.  Unexpected.

She heads to the kitchen for a drink.  She curls up on the couch when she returns and checks her phone again while she absently listens to the telly.

_Grace (voice over):  The third secret Hardy was hiding was that he was not the police officer driving the car when the pendant was stolen._

_Grace (to Hardy):  You took the blame._

_Hardy:  It happened on my watch.  It was my responsibility._

_Grace:  It seems to be a rather drastic step, taking the blame to protect two Detective Sergeants who should have known better than to stop somewhere while they were transporting critical evidence in a criminal investigation._

_{{Hardy raises an eyebrow but remains silent.}}_

_Grace cont’d:  Is there something about the theft of the pendant that you’re still not sharing?_

_{{silence}}_

_Grace cont’d:  You tried to take the blame during the Joe Miller trial as well.  When they were questioning you about Detective Sergeant Ellie Miller being allowed access to her husband immediately after he had confessed to murder.  You said it was your error then, too._

Ellie reaches for her glass and yelps as she knocks it over.  She jumps up, frantically moving everything on the coffee table out of the way before she stomps to the kitchen for a towel, cursing under her breath.

_Hardy:  It was._

_Grace (voice over):  Detective Inspector Alec Hardy has a unique definition of what is and is not his responsibility._

_{{cut to Claire Ripley}}_

_Grace:  You had the pendant in your possession when you were taken in for questioning._

_Claire:  Well, of course. I’m the one who took it out of the car, after all._

Ellie returns to the living room, towel in hand, and begins mopping up the mess she made.

_Grace: Whose car was it?_

Ellie glances up at the telly as Grace’s question finally registers on her.  Her mouth slowly sags open as Claire looks straight into the camera, a slight smirk on her face.

_Claire (very deliberately):  Tess Henchard’s, Alec Hardy’s wife._

*/*/*/*/*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I browsed through the following site (http://www.cps.gov.uk) to decide on the charge for each member of the Sandbrook Three as well as their possible sentences. Each charge I list in this chapter can have a life sentence attached. Even though Ricky's crime was not pre-meditated, and Claire theoretically didn't actually murder Pippa, I gave them all the same sentence due to the fact that they conspired together to conceal the crimes (even if Ricky didn't know Pippa's death wasn't an accident).
> 
> Research, man. Gotta love it. :D


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of swearing in this one.

Hardy’s phone rings.

Miller.

He hesitates.  She must be exhausted after spending the day remembering Danny with the Latimers and the rest of Broadchurch.  He’d considered ringing her, just to check on her, but knowing Miller, she wouldn’t have recognized the gesture, let alone appreciate it.  But here she is, ringing him at this time of night on today of all days.

This can’t be good.

He picks up the call.  “Yeah?” he says, trying not to sound worried.

“Fuck, Hardy-- _fuck_ \--” He hears a thud and Miller lets out a sharp cry of pain, and now she’s swearing in a completely different tone of voice.

His breath catches in sudden terror, all the disasters that could have happened today blooming in his mind, ranging from denting the car to a vivid picture of Miller cowering with Tom and Fred as someone-- _Joe_?  Had Joe come back?--searches for them.

“Miller?  _Miller!_   What’s going on?”

“Nothi--I’m fine--tripped--never mind that!  Claire Ripley just told the world it was Tess!”

Now his heart seems to stop in his chest.  “ _What_?”

“That American program, the one about Sandbrook and Danny, they asked Claire about the pendant and she--”

“ _Fuck!_ ”

He ends the call without another word and immediately dials Tess’ number even as he scrambles for his wallet and room key and heads for the door.

*/*/*/*/*

“For God’s sake, Alec!  What are we going to do now?”

He stares at Tess and Dave, watching him with that same mix of fear and pleading hope on their faces as when they’d confessed the theft of the pendant and their affair, when they’d waited for his rage to explode but knowing he’d think of a way to save them from their own stupidity.  They’re even in his old office--now Tess’--the place where they originally confessed their sins.  He wishes with all his soul that somebody would save _him_ from all this bloody horseshit.

His heart is beating so hard he imagines he can hear his pacemaker squealing from the pressure to keep up.

He swallows his anger and says, “Where’s Daisy?”

“In the lunch room, wondering what the fuck is going on and why we took her phone away,” Tess says.

“Right,” Hardy says and rubs weary hands over his face.  “Let’s go tell her.”

“And then what?”

“Then we go talk to Rebecca.  She’s here, waiting for us.”

Tess and Dave pull in hissing breaths, eyes wide.

“Alec,” Tess says, her eyes soft and pleading, and Hardy wonders what, exactly, she thinks he can do to change things this time.

Hardy shakes his head.  “I can’t protect Daisy this time,” he growls and stalks out of the office.

*/*/*/*/*

Daisy’s puzzled and angry and frightened, and Hardy can see the child still lurking beneath the veneer of the sixteen-year-old young woman she’d become.  His stomach clenches even as he and Tess pull two chairs close to her and sit, reaching to take her hands.  Dave, the sot, hovers behind them and Hardy reluctantly gives him credit for knowing when to get the fuck out of the way.

Hardy’s heart drops when Daisy looks from one to the other and pulls her hands away from both of them.  She silently watches them with a solemn face and wide eyes and a chill runs down his spine.

She’s too calm.

“Darlin’,” he says, his voice a soothing burr, “there was a program on the telly tonight, about Danny Latimer and the Sandbrook case.”

Her expression doesn’t change, her eyes intent as she watches them.

Hardy swallows and glances at Tess, who looks back at him with an equally tortured expression.

“The program included an interview with Claire Ripley,” Tess says, “and...she...she...”  She falters, blinking back tears.

Hardy purses his lips then straightens.  Daisy turns her too-calm face back towards him.  “Daisy.  Two years ago, when the evidence went missing out of the back of a police car...it was while your mother was driving it.  Not me and not some other DS.  Dave was with her.”

Daisy doesn’t blink or look away from him and he slowly leans forward, his eyes wide and intent.

“You already knew?” he asks gently and Tess draws in her breath with a quick hiss.

“I suspected after you came back,” Daisy says and while she’s trying to be stoic--like him, he thinks, and his heart breaks a little more--there’s a tiny tremble in her voice.  “I was hoping--” she hesitates, pressing her lips tightly together-- _like him_ \--then says, “I was hoping I was wrong.”

“Oh, Daisy,” Tess breathes and reaches out to touch her but Daisy flinches away.  “Daize--”

“Don’t,” Daisy chokes out and now tears are filling her eyes.  “You should have _told_ me, Mum.”

“We didn’t think it would ever come out,” Dave says.

Daisy gives him a contemptuous look.  “Secrets _always_ come out.”

Hardy leans back with a sigh.  “Well, this is the last one we’ve kept from you, and unfortunately, it’s going to be a shit show for the next little while.”  He glances at Tess and Dave and says, “We have to go talk to Rebecca now and then we’ll all go talk to Isabella, and then we’ll decide what we’re going to do.”

“What do you care?” Tess says bitterly.  “You’re back on the Broadchurch payroll.  You can always just run away again.”

Hardy grits his teeth.  “I suspect we’re all going to have that option this time round,” he growls.  He gives Daisy a sympathetic look but doesn’t try to touch her.  “We’ll be back soon,” he says.

She just looks down at the floor and nods.

*/*/*/*/*

Rebecca is beyond angry, beyond rage.

It’s terrifying.

She calls Hardy an idiot then turns her attention to Tess and Dave.

“I spent a long time wondering how and why Hardy could have fucked up so badly,” she says with a calm she's obviously struggling to maintain.  “Then I spent the last few months wondering who he would have covered for and why.”  She glances at Hardy.  “Did you know that Will Seymour didn’t believe a word of your story?  He wrote several editorials speculating that it was likely true one of the DSs was having an affair but it was probably with you.  People believed him, for the most part, because it was one of the few things that made any bloody sense.”

Hardy’s eyes widen.

“Missed those ones, then?” Rebecca says drily.

“Must have,” he mutters.

“Gained a lot of traction again after you were accused of having an affair with Ellie Miller.”  She turns her eyes to Tess.  “You didn’t bother telling him that bit?”

Tess’ smug demeanour is nowhere in sight as she says, “Didn’t think--”

“ _Didn’t think!_   That seems to be the story of your fucking life, Tess!” Rebecca snaps.  She flicks cold eyes over to Dave.  “ _Your_ life seems to be about letting other people take the blame.  Why didn’t _you_ stand up?”

Dave stammers then says, “I have a family!”

He has the grace to look chagrined as the other three silently stare at him.

“You are such an arsehole,” Hardy finally growls and raises an eyebrow at Tess.  “I see why you fell for him.”

“For God’s sake, Alec--”

“Enough!” Rebecca snaps.  She looks at the three of them then leans back in her chair and sighs.  “At least now I understand, Alec,” she says, her tones warmer than he’d heard from her since he’d returned.  “I suspected, but without an admission...”  She spreads her hands in a shrug.  “I know you’re back on in Broadchurch, reviewing that case we talked about.  When you’re finished and you’re ready to come back, I’ll find something for you.”

His expression doesn’t change as he gives her a short nod.

She turns to Tess and Dave.  “You are both suspended.  With pay, unfortunately, while we complete a thorough review of all the cases you worked on together, and a spot check review of the cases you worked on separately.” She flicks a glance at Hardy.  “At least we’ve already completed yours.”  She turns back to Tess and Dave.  “Regardless of the findings, I strongly-- _very_ strongly--recommend you find jobs out of Sandbrook when everything’s done--and out of law enforcement...or at least any bit of it that has to do with gathering evidence and maintaining the chain of custody.”  She squeezes her eyes shut, her hands closing into tight fists.  “ _Christ!_   Do you have any understanding of how much this throws everything you’ve ever worked on together into question?  How many cases might be in jeopardy now because you couldn’t control yourselves?  Because you decided a shag was more important than a case we’d been trying to break for weeks?”  She opens her eyes and glares at the pair and Hardy feels a flash of empathy because he knows how difficult it is not to throttle the both of them.

He’s been there.

Rebecca says, her voice whip-sharp, “Isabella’s in her office, working on statements to the press.  If you can drop out of sight before the sun rises and let us do the talking, that might make things a little easier for Hardy and Daisy.”

“Rebecca--” Hardy says, but she interrupts him.

“Don’t you bloody _dare_ try to intervene for her!  You’ve done more than enough of that!”  She turns back to Tess and Dave.  “Doris and Jake are outside and they’re going to help you clean out your offices once Isabella’s finished with you, and then you get out of my station!  Professional Standards will be reviewing all your cases and I swear to _God_ , if there are any other times when you ignored your duties because of your fucking hormones, you damn well better tell me before they do and _pray_ that all I’m going to do is fire you!”

They sit in tense silence, Hardy glaring down at the floor, arms crossed.

“Get out,” Rebecca finally barks.  Tess and Dave scramble to their feet and Hardy finds himself giving her a reassuring nod before she turns and almost runs out the door with Dave on her heels.

He turns to Rebecca and finds her slowly shaking her head at him.

“Was she worth it?” she asks.  “Was she _really_ worth your career and reputation and health?”

He stares off into space and lifts his shoulders in a slight shrug.  “I loved her.  Once.  We were happy...or I thought we were, at least for a time.  We have Daisy, and I wanted to protect my daughter.  She’d only just turned thirteen, and Dave had wee ones and another on the way.  Then there was Pippa...”  He hesitates, mouth pressed tightly closed, struggling with the memory of that poor child.  “Too many innocent lives had already been destroyed,” he growls, “and the truth wouldn’t bring the pendant back or stop the case from falling apart.” 

“You should have trusted me.”

“Your career almost didn’t survive as it was—and I wasn’t going to change my mind about what I was going to do.  There was nothing else you could have-- _should_ have--done.”

“I would have liked the opportunity to try.”  She shakes her head.  “At least I can have Isabella help you deflect the press until you start your new job in Broadchurch.”

He groans and closes his eyes.  “Miller’s going to give me such a bollocking if I bring the press down on top of her again...”

Rebecca grins suddenly, and she looks once again like the woman who had been his partner for a year.  “Someday I’ll need to meet this Miller,” she says with a wicked gleam in her eyes, “swap horror stories about working with Alec Hardy.”  She glances at her watch.  “You’d better go and finish up with Isabella so we can all try to get some sleep before we have to face the press in the morning.”

*/*/*/*/*

Isabella is icily polite when she speaks to Tess and Dave, and Hardy wonders what she _doesn’t_ say every time she opens her mouth, glances at Daisy, and pauses before she says something.  He knows she’s trying to keep things civil in front of his daughter and he appreciates the effort.

But now Isabella’s looking at him.  “When do you start back in Broadchurch?” she asks briskly.

“A week Monday, when Miller’s back.”

“Well,” Isabella says thoughtfully, “we have a couple of options.  We can try to hide all of you, and firmly refuse all requests for interviews.”  She smiles a little at the hopeful look on Hardy’s face.  “Or we can tell the media the three of you are available for interviews for the next week, but only for the next week, and we can do a press conference or two if the demand seems high enough.  Let them get their feeding frenzy over with and maybe they’ll leave you alone when you go to Broadchurch.”

“So long as we keep Daisy out of it,” he says and looks at Daisy.  “It had nothing to do with you.”

“Why’d you cover for Mum?” she demands, the first time she’s spoken since they filed into Isabella’s office.  “Did you love her so much you were willing to cover up anything for her?  Is she why you threw it all away?”

He scowls at her and glares at Tess and Dave, at Isabella, at the world in general for always putting him in these bloody _shitty_ situations.

“I did it for you,” he admits sullenly.  “Saving your mother was…secondary.”

“Nobody’s going to believe that,” Daisy says.  “Nobody believes it now.  Everybody thinks you were willing to cover for a bad cop because you loved her more than your duties as a police officer.”

He frowns.  “How do you know what ‘everybody’ is thinking?”

She rolls her eyes.  “Have you ever even _heard_ of social media, Dad?  It’s trending all over the place already.”

He lets out a gusty sigh.  “Bloody Twitter,” he mutters.

“Yah, there, too.”  She looks at her mother, her face calm but her eyes cold and angry.  “When the week is done, I want to go with Dad.”

“What?” Tess gasps.

“What?” Hardy says blankly.

“It’s summer break.  Maybe I should spend it with you.”  She looks again at her mother.  “If I like it there, maybe I’ll stay.  I hate this place anyway, especially since everything went to shit the first time.”

“Language,” Hardy mutters automatically but there’s no force behind it and Daisy ignores him, her attention focused on her mother.

Tess stares, eyes wide and hurt.  “Daize…please--”

Daisy rolls her eyes, crosses her arms and leans back in her chair.

Hardy huffs a sigh and puts a hand on Daisy’s shoulder but she shrugs it off.  It doesn’t make him feel any better when she does the same to Tess.

*/*/*/*/*

Charlie is blinking sleepily when he opens the door to Hardy and Daisy, and he yawns widely as he steps aside to let them in.

“Rachel’s making some tea,” he says.  “If you’re tired, Daize, Mackenzie’s bed is already made up for you.”

“Yah,” she mutters, “thanks.”

“Do you want a cuppa?  Rachel will bring you one, if you’d like.”

“No, thanks.  I just want to go to bed.”

“Right.”  Charlie looks rather helplessly at Hardy, who just gives a small shake of his head.

“G’night, Dad, Uncle Charlie,” she says without quite looking at either of them.  “Please say good-night to Aunt Rachel for me.”

She clutches her small plastic bag against her chest as she trudges up the stairs to the bedroom, the bag that contains the personal toiletries and pajamas they’d purchased on the way to the Bellamy’s.

Hardy watches her go with a heavy heart then turns to see Charlie’s curious face.

“Tea,” Charlie says firmly, and leads the way to the kitchen.

*/*/*/*/*

Rachel and Charlie hear him out without comment and sit in sympathetic silence when he’s finished.

Rachel exchanges a glance with Charlie then says, “Well...when the news broke you’d taken the blame for someone, we suspected it was Tess.”

He gives an almost half-smile.  “You didn’t believe Will Seymour’s theory that I was the one having an affair with one of my Detective Sergeants?”

“We know you, Alec,” Rachel says calmly.  “We would have needed to see pictures before we’d believe you cheated on Tess.”

Charlie lets out a heavy sigh.  “Daisy’s welcome to stay for as long as you need,” he says.

“I go to Broadchurch in a week.  She wants to go with me.  We’ll see if Tess manages to convince her otherwise before then.”

“Sounds like Tess will have problems of her own,” Rachel says drily.  “It might be good to have Daisy as far from the storm as you can get her.”

“The storm’s only going to follow,” Hardy growls.

*/*/*/*/*

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, that was cathartic. LOL


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Sorry for the delay in my usual posting schedule. :) I've been working overtime this week (UGH SPREADSHEETS!!!) and been a bit derailed by a ship in a new fandom. Things should be getting back to the regular schedule now, though. :)
> 
> */*/*/*/*

Ellie scrabbles for the phone when it rings at five-thirty the next morning.

She answers, her voice hoarse with sleep although she really didn’t sleep much.  Between the heavy emotional toll of remembering Danny followed by Claire’s revelation on international television, her thoughts kept waking her throughout the night.  Thank God she’s off work until tomorrow.

“Miller,” he sighs, and her heart twists a little at the exhaustion in his voice. 

She pushes down her natural urge to ask if he’s all right, if he’s slept at all, because that’s not how they work, and instead keeps her voice brisk.  “What _happened_?”

He explains with sparse words, his Scottish burr husky and more pronounced than ever.  It’s the emotion beneath the words that tells her just how much Claire’s actions have cost him.

The silence stretches out once he’s finished until she finally says, “Interviews all week...when do you expect to get to Broadchurch?”

“We’re planning to leave Saturday morning and hopefully the Traders will have a couple adjoining rooms available.  If not, we’ll make do, I suppose.  I’ll go round to the leasing agent on Monday.”

“My last day is Thursday.  I’ll go round on Friday, get a list of what’s available.  You might be able to look at places on the weekend.”

There’s silence on the other end of the phone.

“Are you being nice to me, Miller?” he asks slowly and she bites back a grin at his suspicious tones.

“Don’t be daft,” she says.  “I just don’t want anything to delay us starting to work on the Livingstone case.”

“Ah.  Right.  Good idea, then, Miller.  Well done.”

She rolls her eyes and gives an exaggerated huff, pretending to be irritated, then she sobers, all amusement gone.  “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.”

She bites her lip, but she’s not there and he’s not here so she can’t judge for herself.  She hums, a skeptical sound.

“Really,” he says, his voice almost fond.  “I’m not so sure about Daisy.”

“Get her through the week, then get her down here.  She just needs some time.”

There’s silence on the other end of the phone, then Hardy says, “You were right, Miller.”

“About what?”

“That really _is_ a shitty platitude.”

*/*/*/*/*

Hardy grinds through a week that begins on Saturday morning with an official statement from Rebecca notifying the public that Tess and Dave had been immediately suspended and their cases were being reviewed.

To his annoyance, the media virtually ignores Tess and Dave and focus in on him.  Even the press conference mid-week has him fielding more questions than the other two.  It angers and flusters him, and to his confusion, it annoys Tess and Dave as well, if their snappy comments and glares are anything to go by.

It amuses Isabella and she’s almost gleeful Wednesday evening when she’s briefing them on the next day’s schedule and Hardy still has significantly more interview requests than the other two.  After Tess and Dave leave, she observes him with a small smile as he slumps in the chair in front of her desk.

“What new hell do you have planned for me?” he sighs.

“Your last interview starts at nine a.m. tomorrow with Grace Heath, from the--”

“I know who she is,” he growls as he rolls his eyes.

“It should be short.  I understand they just want an update for their viewers.”

“It hasn’t even been a week!”

“They need to strike while the iron’s hot.”  She tilts her head and gives him a thoughtful look.  “Have you been reading the articles or watching the segments reporting on all of this?  Gone online to see what they’re saying about you?”

“God, no!  It’s too much like _entertainment_.”

“Hm.  Not even the editorials in the local paper?”

“You mean Will Seymour’s articles?  I read the first one, on Saturday morning.”  His lip twists.  “I don’t need to read any more.”

“He really has it in for you.”

“I once arrested him for being drunk and disorderly,” Hardy growls.  “Got him suspended for a wee bit.  He’s never forgiven me.”

She raises an eyebrow, hums, but lets it go.

“Well,” she says briskly, “we’re starting to get messages for you.”

“Messages?”

“Yes.”

He gives her a puzzled scowl.

“You know--from the public?” she says.

“What about?” he asks blankly.

She shrugs. “About you, about the case, about...everything, really.  Do you have an e-mail address we can use to forward these on to you?”

“I’ll have one with the Broadchurch constabulary after Monday.”

Her lips twitch and his eyes narrow.

“I’ll have a chat with your CS, see if Broadchurch can set up a separate e-mail address for you to use.”

“Why?”

“You don’t know who’s writing to you, Hardy.  You may not want them to have your real work address.”

He opens his mouth to protest then closes it again and nods.  It makes sense. 

“I’ll talk to Elaine,” he says.

“Right,” she says and busies herself with some papers on her desk.  “Well...it’s been a pleasure working with you, Hardy.”

He gives her a slight smile.  “Right,” he says skeptically.

She laughs as she stands and holds out her hand.  “I’m sure we’ll meet again.  Good luck in Broadchurch.”

He shakes her hand.  “Good-bye, Isabella.”

All he feels is sweet relief as he leaves the police station. 

It’s almost as if he’s finished another round of penance.

*/*/*/*/*

Charlie and Rachel insist on driving him and Daisy to Broadchurch and they arrive mid-afternoon on Saturday.  Becca is as flirtatious as always--once he introduces Daisy as his daughter, anyway--and they take their things to their rooms before he takes them for a walk round town, over the cliffs and to the beach.

He’s recognized and greeted by more people than he expects although he can’t remember the names of most of them.  He’s even asked for a picture or two by people he’s almost sure are tourists...although like in Sandbrook, they’re likely just taking the piss with him.

They go to Miller’s house as agreed for five, where they find tables set up in the back yard and the Latimers as well.  Chloe and Tom and Daisy assess each other a little suspiciously but any awkwardness is eased by laughing at Fred’s toddler activities, cooing over Lizzie and rushing to get the food on the table.

After they eat, Hardy and Miller stay behind to clear up while the others take the children to play a modified game of football in the common behind the house.  They keep an eye on everyone through the window over the sink.

They work silently and Hardy smiles as he watches Daisy chase after Tom, her long brown hair flying.  There’s a sudden loud clatter of dishes and he turns a quizzical look on Miller, who’s red-faced from the hot water.

“Sorry,” she says with an embarrassed smile, “the plate slipped.”

“Probably shouldn’t have had that last glass of wine, Miller.”

She rolls her eyes.

“How does it feel?” she says suddenly and he turns to her with his more-familiar questioning scowl.  “Being back, I mean.”

His eyes are dark and fathomless and she can see him turning the question round in his head.  There’s a look his eyes that makes her curious and nervous as the heat rises again in her cheeks and another dish almost slips through her fingers.  At least he’s not still smiling, she thinks, because he has _dimples_ and--

“Relieved.”

She startles. “What?”

“Being back.  I’m relieved to be back.”  His eyes narrow.  “You really have had too much wine,” he growls.

She tsks and turns back to the dishes.  “Did you miss the place that much, then?”

“Na, I still hate it...but I hate bloody reporters even more and I’m hoping this means I can start doing something productive again.”

“Like looking into the Francesca Livingstone case?”

“Aye, along with whatever else comes our way.”

She nods.  She understands.  She’s itching to get to work on Monday, too.

He picks up another dish and dries it.  “At least I should be finally done with reporters for a while.”

“Oh, speaking of reporters...Will Seymour’s asked me out again.”

She watches from the corner of her eye as his hands still then begin moving again.  He finishes wiping the dish dry then places it on the counter and picks up the next one.

“He’s very handsome,” she says hopefully.

He gives her a side-glance.  “For a bloody reporter,” he mutters.

“I can’t let that get in the way--my nephew’s a bloody reporter.”

He gives her a speaking look, eyebrow raised and she bites back a laugh.

“Don’t worry, Hardy, I’ll keep your secrets.”

He glances out the window at his daughter, a suddenly sad look on his face.  “No more secrets,” he says softly.  “They always have a way of being found out.”

*/*/*/*/*

Hardy and Daisy look at rental places on Sunday and to Hardy’s surprise, his little blue shack is once again on the market.  There’s only one bedroom so it’s too small but they tour it anyway since Daisy has never seen it.  They find nothing suitable and they go back to Traders feeling a little deflated.

In the morning, Rachel and Charlie leave for Sandbrook, and Hardy reluctantly leaves Daisy to her own devices and meets Miller outside the police station.  They walk in together to meet with Elaine.

“Welcome back,” she says, a small smile on her face.  “Both of you.”

Ellie beams.  “Glad to be back,” she says.

Hardy nods.

“We’ve set you up in the back boardroom--it was mostly storage anyway.  The Livingstone files arrived on the weekend, so you can get started right away.”

Both Hardy and Ellie straighten, eyes widening with anticipation.

“Everything should be set up already,” Elaine continues.  She writes on a post-it note and holds it out to Hardy.  “This is the e-mail address for your fan mail.”

He rolls his eyes.  “Isabella,” he growls, exasperated.

Elaine shrugs, a smirk on her face.  “She seemed to think you’d forget to talk to me about it...which you did.”

He scowls as he stands and grabs the post-it note.  “Can we work now?”

*/*/*/*/*

Their new space is a little cramped but more usable for their purposes than the living room in his little blue shack.  Two desks face each other on one end of the room.  There’s a table, currently loaded with boxes, in front of the windows, and a white board and filing cabinet on the opposite end of the room from their desks.

They silently survey the space then Miller says, “Well, we can always rearrange if we get on each other’s nerves.”

He raises an eyebrow.  “If?”

She rolls her eyes and gestures towards the boxes on the table.  “Want to get started?”

“God, yes,” he breathes and pauses only long enough to slap the post-it note on the corner of a desk before joining her at the table.

Hardy lifts out a file and flips it open, feeling almost dizzy as a wave of relieved gratitude washes over him.  He may be living in a hotel, Daisy may still be barely speaking to him, he may be back in bloody Broadchurch, and working with Miller again is probably not going to end well for him, but--he pulls in a deep breath as he places the file on the table and takes out the next one--he finally feels like he’s home.

*/*/*/*/*

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Sorry for taking so long to get this chapter written and posted. I’ve been working overtime (and will be for the rest of the month) and it’s screwed up my writing schedule. :( And NaNoWriMo is starting on the 1st…I’ll post chapters as soon as they’re finished, but my usual once-a-week schedule may be a little off for the next little while.  
> */*/*/*/*

Hardy and Miller methodically work their way through the case files, making notes and pinning pictures of all the players in the case to the murder board.

Hardy receives a phone call on Tuesday afternoon telling him Archie Reynolds was finally out of the infirmary and they can see him whenever they’re able to make the trip to the penitentiary.  He raises an eyebrow at Miller.

“Well, I have to make arrangements for Fred and Tom,” she says.  “What are you going to do about Daisy?”

He groans and rubs his face.  “I don’t want her hanging round the Traders alone for what--two-three days?  That’s just begging for disaster, especially at the height of tourist season.”

“What’s she been doing while you’re at work?”

“Exploring,” he says with a grimace.  “She ran into Chloe out with Lizzie yesterday afternoon, so she’s off to Weymouth with Chloe and Beth today.”  He glares at Ellie like it’s somehow her fault. “They’re _shopping_.”

She grins at the horror that drips from the word.  “Well, at least she’s doing something, and she’s with people you know and trust.”

“Better than the alternative, yes,” he growls, and frowns into the distance.  “We could take her with us to Sandbrook, let her spend some time with her mother.”

Ellie raises an eyebrow.  “You don’t sound thrilled with that idea.”

Hardy sighs and rubs his hands over his face again.  “Daisy isn’t...she’s very _angry_.”

Ellie snorts.  “I wonder where she gets that from.”

He rolls his eyes.  “There’s a great deal of tension between her and her mother right now.”

“Are you surprised?”

He gives a sharp shake of his head.  “Tess, on the other hand...”

Ellie raises an eyebrow.  “She’s surprised Daisy is angry?”

“Well, surprised probably isn’t the right word.  More like...disappointed.  With me and the situation and...” 

He presses his lips together in a frown as he ducks his head and scratches an eyebrow.  He looks at her and shrugs helplessly.  “I took the blame because we didn’t want Daisy to be hurt by more than just the divorce.  The truth was never supposed to be public, not to mention the fallout from it all, made even worse _because_ I took the blame.  Daisy doesn’t want to see her mother right now.  She barely wants to see me.”

Ellie ponders his words but can’t think of what to say.  She settles for focusing on a problem they can solve.  “So, what are you do want to do?”

“She’s sixteen.  Means I can’t force her to see her mother or come with us to Sandbrook.  Not that I would do that to her anyway.”

“Right, well, do you think she’d like to stay at my place?  Look out for Tom and Fred while we’re gone?  I’ll pay her what I’d pay the child-minder, and it would give Beth and Lucy a bit of a break.”

He hesitates.  “I’m not sure how much experience she has with toddlers,” he says doubtfully.

“Tom can help there, and Beth and Luce will stop by and check on them, of course, and they’re only a phone call away if she runs into problems.”

He ponders the idea.  “We can ask her,” he says, cautious hope in his voice.

*/*/*/*/*

Daisy agrees without any arguments, and Hardy’s not sure if he’s worried about her apathy or grateful for it, at least for the moment.  She’s always been more her mother’s daughter than his, with few of his passionately angry outbursts.

But her blankness disconcerts him--almost as much as his own blankness after they’d arrested the Ashworths and Ricky, and after they were sentenced.  He hates the fact he and Daisy are still living at Traders, without much privacy and without a place where they have the privacy and comfort to have the talk they need.

A part of him mulls over the problem even after he’s left Daisy settled on the sofa at Miller’s, Tom’s sullen presence on one side of her and Chloe on the other.  Three desperately hurting children, he thinks as Miller drives out of town.  So much collateral damage caused by selfish, unthinking arseholes.

He and Miller chat briefly about their goals when talking with Reynolds the next day, then he goes back to brooding over what he can do for Daisy, haunted by the three sad faces they’d left behind.

“How’s Tom?” he asks abruptly and Miller jumps a little, startled.

“Fine,” she says shortly, with a half-puzzled, half-defensive smile.  “You just saw him!  Why?”

“I’m worried about Daisy,” he says.  “Wondered if you had any tips.”

“Oh,” she sinks down a little, cursing herself for snapping at him.  “Therapy,” she says. 

To her surprise, he doesn’t curl his lip at the word.

“Together and separately,” she adds when he remains silent.

He sighs.  “That’s what I was afraid of,” he mutters.

“Look,” she says, “maybe all she needs is to talk about it to someone who doesn’t know you or Tess or Dave.  Have you talked to her about everything?”

He gives a short shake of his head.

She rolls her eyes.  “Why am I not surprised?” she sighs.

“We can’t exactly have what’s going to be an emotional conversation at the Traders!”

“Is that all?  You can borrow my house when we get back.  I’ll take the boys out for the day and then you and Daisy can yell and scream and she can cry as much as she wants.  Clear the air.”

He’s silent, thinking about it, then nods.

“Then I can give you the name of a good therapist.  I think you need it.”

“Thanks, Miller,” he says drily as he turns his head to look out the window.

*/*/*/*/*

Hardy and Miller thoughtfully assess the still-young man settling in to the chair across from them in the prison’s interview room.  He clanks as he shifts, his hands and feet shackled, his dark eyes curious yet carefully empty of any emotion as he considers them in his turn.

“We’re here to talk about Francesca Livingstone,” Hardy says after they’ve introduced themselves.

“Well, didn’t think you were here to see how I like the accommodations,” Archie drawls.

“Dottie Livingstone has asked us to review the case.”

“What for?”

“She wants to find Francesca’s body,” Miller says.  “She wants to bring her daughter home.  Give her a proper burial.”

Archie barks a sharp, harsh laugh that leads into a coughing fit.  “Fucking lungs,” he groans as he catches his breath.  “Pneumonia, they tell me.  Cancer more like.  ‘Wants to bring her daughter home’-- _ha_!  That old bitch wants to give Frankie a ‘proper burial’ my arse.  That c--” he sees Miller’s raised eyebrows and abruptly stops, clearing his throat.  “That old biddy hated Frankie.  I can’t imagine she shed one tear over her in the last ten years unless it was a tear of joy.”

Hardy raises an eyebrow.  “Why don’t you just tell us what you did with the body.”

Archie sneers.  “Even if I could remember what I did with her, I wouldn’t tell you—not if it’s for Frankie’s mum.  The old cow can suffer till she dies for all I care.”

“What on earth did she do?” Miller says.

“She treated Frankie like shite--always had.  Kept her away from her dad, tried to lock her up in that house of hers, always sticking her nose in where it didn’t belong, trying to run her life and trying to keep her under her thumb.  Happiest day of Frankie’s life was when she got a flat of her own.”

“Which her mother paid for,” Hardy says.

“She didn’t pay for nothin’,” Archie growls.  “Frankie paid her own way.  She didn’t want to take anything from that bitch.  In fact, that mother of hers threatened to disinherit her!  Imagine!  Her only daughter!”

“Doesn’t sound like there was any love lost between them,” Miller says.  “Getting cut out of the will shouldn’t have come as a surprise to Frankie.”

“Who else was that old hag going to leave it to?  Nah, it was just another attempt to keep Frankie under her control.”

“Is that why you killed Frankie?  Because you wanted to keep her under _your_ control?” Hardy asks.

Archie seems to shrink in front of them.  “I don’t know why I killed Frankie,” he mutters.

“In your confession, you said you don’t remember most of the night, including the murder.  Is that why you’ve never led police to the body?” Miller says.

He shrugs.  “Well, yah,” he says impatiently.  “If I could remember what I’d done with her, of course I would have told them where she is.”  His face twists with anger and frustration and he leans forward.  “I loved her,” he says, almost viciously.  “I would have done anything for her, anything she asked, anything she wanted!  You don’t think I want to know what the fuck happened that night?  To understand how I went from utter devotion to killing her and leaving her God knows where?  She was _everything_ to me and it eats me up inside that I could do that to her.”

“If you were so devoted to her, and you don’t remember the night, why are you so certain you’re the one who killed her?” Miller asks.

He stares at her, eyes dark and pained.  “After talking about that night with the other AlphaBetties, about where we went and what we did, trying to figure out when Frankie disappeared and where...it had to be me.”  He leans back in his chair and covers his face with his hands, rubbing his eyes.  “There was no one else.”

Hardy and Miller share a lightning quick glance then turn back to Archie.

“Walk us through it,” Hardy says.  “The places you went, the order you went to them, when Frankie disappeared, who was with you.  All of it.”

Archie glares.  “It’s all in my confession.”

Hardy gives him a tight-lipped almost-smile.  “Humour us,” he says.

Archie sighs.  “Fine.  We went out--the AlphaBetties.  Me, Frankie, Elena, Ginger, Del, Cora, and Binky.  We met at seven for dinner at the Side Street Bar and Grill, then headed to Spot--hottest place in town, then.  From there, we went to Plymouth Tavern, then the Bunk House Bar and Grill, then Blossom’s, then Chumley’s...after that, it gets vague.  I remember walking a lot, drinking a lot, stumbling a lot.  The others remember more, but I don’t.  They say Frankie and I got into an argument because I was leaving on the Monday and she didn’t want me to go.  It was too good an opportunity to miss and, even for her...I couldn’t stay.  We’d been arguing about it ever since I took the job.  I’d asked her to come with me, but she wouldn’t.  Said her bloody mother didn’t want to let her out from under her thumb and support her until she could get settled in London.  I couldn’t support both of us, at least not right away.  We couldn’t see any other way out of it so we decided to--” He stops and blinks owlishly at them.  “We decided to break up.  Only I wasn’t happy about it.  The others said we got into a huge row that night--I don’t remember it, but I don’t doubt it.  Frankie and I always fought when we got loaded.”

He grins.

“The make-up sex, though, was out of this world.”  He glances from Hardy to Miller and back again, studying their stoic faces.  “Doubt you know what that’s like,” he mutters.

Hardy raises an eyebrow.  “What happened after the fight?” he says, his voice cool and calm.

“Well, everyone was pretty far gone at that point.  From what we can piece together between us, we forgot Elena at one place and Frankie and Cora went back for her, then Binky passed out at another place and we left her behind with Del, but they caught up with us later on.  Ginger and Elena and Frankie went to get something to eat, then Cora ended up puking somewhere, and--” he helplessly waves his hands and shrugs.  “Nobody’s really sure of all the different groups that broke off, or when.”

“When did you realize you were the one who had done something to Frankie?” Miller asks.

“About a year or so after she disappeared.  We’d been talking about it for so long, and it finally dawned on me that Frankie and I disappeared and never came back to the group.  We were the only ones who didn’t come back.”

He looks at them, his face drawn, his eyes haunted.  “It _had_ to be me,” he whispers.

*/*/*/*/*

Hardy and Miller return to the car in somber silence.  As Miller pulls out of the prison’s parking lot, Hardy takes out his phone.

He pinches the bridge of his nose as he listens to the ringing on the other end before Daisy picks up with a cautious hello.

“Hello, darlin’,” he says warmly.

“Hi, Dad.  What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” he says with an almost-chuckle.  “Just...wanted to check in with you.”

“We’re fine, Dad.  Tell Ellie the fire was small and it only took two fire trucks to put out.”

Now he really does chuckle and he’s vaguely aware of Miller’s surprised face as she watches him in the rear view mirror.

“I’ll tell her,” he says.  “Everything’s fine, then?”

“ _Yes_ , Dad--you have got to stop worrying!”

“I wasn’t really worried,” he admits.  “Just wanted to call and say...”

He closes his eyes and Pippa’s smiling face flashes in his mind, closely followed by a memory of what she’d become after three days in the river.  He opens his eyes wide, shakes his head, and speaks in a rush, “I wanted to say you’re a good kid, Daisy, and I know I’m being soppy but I love you very much, and I know you’re angry with me and your mother right now, but we’ll work through it.  Awright?”

There’s silence then a soft sniff before Daisy says, “Aw, Dad, you’re so embarrassing.”

He smiles at that.  “I know.  Sorry, darling.”

“When are you coming home?” she asks, and he closes his eyes.

How the hell did Broadchurch become home?

“Tomorrow.  Should be there right after lunch, and then I’ll be back at the hotel about six, right after work.”

“Right.  Should I stay here until Ellie gets off work, too?”

He turns to Miller, who’s pretending not to listen and doing a shitty job of it.  “Miller, do you want Daisy to stay with the boys until you get off work tomorrow?”

She’s startled for a moment then says, “Sure.  We can all have dinner together.”

He turns back to the phone.  “Yes, and we’re invited to dinner as well.”

“Good,” Daisy says.  “I’d better go.”

“Right.  Of course.”

“Dad--”

“Yes?”

“I love you, too, you know.  I’m just...”

“Angry.  I know.”

“Drive safe.  See you tomorrow.”

“Thanks.  See you tomorrow.”

He hangs up, staring out the window, then says, “If we can borrow your living room on the weekend...”

“Of course.”

*/*/*/*/*

Hardy sleeps badly that night, the memory of drowning and Pippa haunting his dreams.  He blames his haggard face on the fact they leave at an ungodly hour of the morning and they drive in almost complete silence back to Broadchurch, mulling over everything they’d learned from Archie Reynolds...which wasn’t much, they agree glumly when they stop for petrol, the washrooms and something to drink.

Ellie raises an eyebrow when Hardy pays for everything and he shrugs, a self-deprecating grimace on his face.

“You gave Daisy a safe place to stay while we were gone, and something to do.  I suppose I can pay for the tea.”

She rolls her eyes but smiles anyway and it broadens when she tastes the tea and it’s exactly as she likes it.

They get back on the road, talking over the case and their next steps.

“Well, we know the body can’t be far from the town itself, if it’s even out of town,” Hardy says, “and we should have reports on our desks when we get back about whether anyone has used Francesca’s identification since she’s gone missing.”

“Do you know if there have been any Jane Doe’s found since she disappeared?”

“Those reports should be in our e-mails as well,” he says with an approving glance.  “Well done, Miller.  We may make a detective out of you yet.”

“If only we could make you less of a knob,” she snaps, rolling her eyes.

He chuckles and she turns and gives him a surprised stare.  He raises an eyebrow at her expression then slowly sobers, his eyes puzzled.  She quickly returns her attention to the road.

“Right,” she says briskly, turning her head away to grimace at the nervous tone in her voice.  “What else?”

He shrugs and sighs.  “We still have more evidence to review and we’ll plot out their route through Sandbrook.  It should give us a lead for where to look for a body.”  He pauses, thinking.  “We’ll see where the investigators searched ten years ago and go from there.”

“Do you think we’ll find her?”

Hardy shrugs.  “If we don’t, then she can’t be found.”

Ellie gives him a quick, pleased smile as they subsided back into silence.

*/*/*/*/*

They walk into the station around half-one, and head to their office, lunch in hand.  Hardy walks in ahead of her and stops so suddenly she bumps into him, hand flat on his surprisingly solid back.

“For God’s sake,” she snaps, “what is wrong with you?”

He looks round at her, eyes wide as he moves out of the way and she can see into their office.

Her mouth drops and she steps into the room.  They both stand and slowly stare in stunned silence at all the boxes and bags that had somehow been crammed into every available space in the room during the two and a half days they’d been gone, leaving only a narrow path to the filing cabinet, their desks and the murder board.

“What the bloody hell,” Hardy finally manages, and Miller begins to laugh.

“Oh, come on, Hardy,” she says, grinning, “they’re just taking the piss!  This used to be a storage room, after all!”  She sees his expression and begins to giggle.  “If you could see your face!  Come on, they saw a chance to pull a prank on us and took it!”

“If only that’s what this is about,” Elaine says drily from behind them.

“What is this all about, then?” Hardy demands.

Elaine steps aside and Isabella pokes her head round the door.  “Damn it, I’d hoped to be in there waiting for you so I could see your face!”

“We’ve been on the road since six this morning,” Hardy snaps. “I’m not in the mood for jokes.”

“Are you ever in the mood for jokes?” Ellie asks and claps a hand over her mouth as she begins to giggle again after he practically growls at her.

Isabella and Elaine don’t bother trying to hide their laughter as they walk in, causing Hardy and Ellie to retreat behind their respective desks in order to give them room.

Isabella sweeps a hand out, encompassing all of the boxes and slumped mail bags stacked throughout the room.  “This...is your fan mail.”

Ellie and Hardy stare.

“Fan mail?” Ellie finally squeaks.

Isabella nods, biting back a smile.  “Most of it’s addressed to Hardy, but there are a few pieces in there for you, Ellie, and to both you and Hardy.  There’s more on the way, according to the producers of _Close to Home_.  That’s where most of this came from, as far as we can tell.”

Hardy almost falls into his chair.  “Fan mail,” he says weakly.

Isabella nods.  “Have you been keeping up with that e-mail address I gave you?  Checking it regularly?”

“I--no!  Haven’t even thought of it.  It hasn’t even been a week!”

“You may want to check that, too.  We’ve been sending through all the messages we’ve received and, you know, people send more electronically now than through the post.”

His mouth slowly drops open, his eyes widening as he stares at the three women watching him with varying degrees of amusement.

“Horseshit,” he finally whispers, bursting from his seat and rushing to one of the boxes to throw it open.  “There is no w--”

It’s filled to the brim with letters and postcards, big envelopes and small envelopes, and even a box or two.

“Everything’s been scanned and inspected,” Isabella says cheerfully, eyes sparkling with almost evil amusement.

He stares at them again, mouth open, eyes wide, his hair falling into his eyes, and he looks so stunned, Ellie has a sudden urge to brush the hair off his forehead and tell him everything is going to be all right.

“What am I supposed to do with all of this?” he whispers, and she wonders if she’s the only one who knows he’s not only talking about the physical volume of mail but also everything it symbolizes.

Isabella and Elaine glance at each other and shrug.  “It’s entirely up to you,” Elaine says.  “It can’t stay here for long...obviously, if there’s more on the way.”

“I’m still at the Traders,” he says, bewildered.  “I can’t afford to rent another room for my mail.”

Elaine shrugs and shares an amused look with Isabella.  “Well, I’m sure you’ll figure something out.”

He turns his eyes on Isabella and she raises her hands.  “Don’t look at me,” she says.  “I only delivered the mail we received in Sandbrook.  I wanted to see your reaction, and you certainly didn’t disappoint!”  She laughs.  “What you do with it all is up to you...although I’d suggest you might want to read it and respond to at least some of it.  At least thank people for taking the time to write.”

He blinks and looks at Ellie, who shrugs helplessly.  “I don’t have much room at my place,” she says.  “We’ll have to work round it until you can go through it or until you find a place to live.”

He staggers back to his chair and collapses on to it.

“Bloody hell,” he mutters.

*/*/*/*/*


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N1 – still working overtime but hopefully I’ll be finished with it by the end of this weekend…*sighs*  
> 

*/*/*/*/*

Ellie’s both amused by Hardy’s stunned face and oddly moved by the sheer disbelief and terror in his eyes as he stays almost bonelessly slumped in his chair even after Elaine and Isabella leave them alone with his newfound popularity.

“Well,” she says briskly, thinking somebody has to get control of the situation, “this is all a bit inconvenient, but we still have work to do.”

“Oh, aye,” he drawls sarcastically, “and no room to do it in.”

“Don’t be such a baby!  I’m sure we can manage to maneuvre round each other and all of this... _stuff_ for the next couple days.”  She eyes the stacks of boxes and bags.  “I think you’ll find most of these are empty.  It’s just Isabella and everybody having some fun with you--you know what that is, right?  Fun?”

He glares.  “Work,” he growls.

She rolls her eyes even as she bites back a grin at his sour face.  “Well,” she mutters as she settles on to her own chair and powers up her computer, “I wouldn’t go so far as to call what we do ‘fun’...”

*/*/*/*/*

They finish going through the case files that afternoon, pinning an enlarged copy of the map that had been made during the initial investigation in the centre of the murder board, surrounded by the AlphaBetties.

She takes a step to the side, hitting her elbow against a box of mail and hissing at the sudden sharp pain.

“You may want to start with these ones,” she grumbles to Hardy, squeezed in behind her at the board.

He absently nods, focused on the map and the notes he’d made during their conversation with Archie and from their review of the files.  Each location mentioned by the AlphaBetties is carefully circled and the sequence of events is traced out, with small x’s marking the points where various of the friends last remembered seeing Francesca Livingstone.

Ellie carefully shifts back into place in front of him, and she’s grateful that their difference in height actually works in their favour in this situation.  She tries to ignore the fact his chest is almost pressed against her back as they both lean in, intently scrutinizing the map in front of them.

“Anything?” she asks after a few silent moments.

“Well, it’s been a long time,” he says, and she hides a shiver as his Scottish burr rumbles in her ear and against her back.  “The places where they last remember seeing Francesca were only a couple blocks from the outskirts of town at the time, but there was a building boom going on all along that corridor.  This--” he stretches an arm over her shoulder and places one long, almost elegant finger on the map to trace the outline of an area just north of the line of x’s, “is now a shopping district.  Caused a lot of controversy at the time.  Ask your friend Will Seymour about it.  He wrote enough editorials railing against it at the time.”

She gives him a brittle smile over her shoulder.  “Well, I’m having dinner with him on Saturday next, so I’ll make a point of asking him about it.”

He leans back a little to meet her eyes, then quickly returns his gaze to the board.  “Right, well, we really shouldn’t wait that long.  If we can find out anything about when that construction was going on and the state it was in at the time--”

She gives a small gasp.  “You don’t think--”

“Ricky and Lee put Lisa’s body in a recently dug grave,” he says, equal parts disgusted anger and weary sadness.  “An empty hole, about to be filled with cement...” He gives an eloquent shrug.

“Yah,” she sighs, cocking her head to one side as she leans a little closer to the board to frown at the map.

He watches her think, his eyes tracing her profile, admiring the way her hair curls wildly round her ear even though she has it ruthlessly pinned back.  He bites back the desire to ask how she’s going to wrangle her hair into some semblance of order for her date with Will bloody Seymour.  He doesn’t have much room to move at the moment and he can’t back away as quickly as he could if he had the space to turn and run.  Besides, he still remembers how Miller threatened to kick the producers of _Close to Home_ in the balls if they came near her.  Completely different situations, of course, but still something to consider before mouthing off without an exit strategy.

“Mum?

“Dad?”

Hardy and Miller exchange startled glances before she calls “we’re here”.  They do an awkward shuffle until Miller is able to duck under his arm and hurry down the short path to the door, Hardy on her heels.  They find Tom and Daisy and wee Fred in his pushchair crowded just inside their office, staring round with wide eyes.

“It really is as bad as you said, Mum,” Tom says in awe.

“Yah,” Miller groans as she scrabbles for her car keys. “We’re a bit desperate at the moment.  Thanks to you and Daisy for dropping by to help us get a few out of here.”

“And take them where, Miller?” Hardy asks, confused.

“My place,” she says, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“You said you don’t have room!”

“Well, not for all of them at once, Hardy, but if we take a couple at a time and sort through them, say, once a week, we should have this lot cleared out in no time.  I mean, this is probably it, right?  You can’t possibly be getting more!”

“Well, you never know about that,” Isabella says from the doorway.  “Room for one more?” she asks with a grin.

Daisy and Tom crowd behind Miller’s desk, while Hardy and Miller shuffle into place behind his.  He’s keenly aware of Miller’s back once again pressing against his chest and he’d like to give her more space--for both their sakes--but he’s already as far away as he can get.  Poor wee Fred is sitting in his pushchair with nothing to look at in front of him except boxes, a familiar, puzzled expression on what Hardy can see of his face.  The absurdity of it all suddenly strikes Hardy and he finds himself struggling not to laugh.  Miller glances over her shoulder at him and she looks even more puzzled than Fred, which threatens to destroy his self-control, especially when her eyes suddenly light up with laughter of her own.  She hastily turns back to their children and Isabella.

“You’re right, Ellie,” Isabella says, “things are going to calm down very quickly.  This is mainly the result of the first airing of _Close to Home_...well, and some of it’s from some of the other stories, but those were mostly in the print media and online.  It’s really the telly that’s made Hardy--and you, Ellie--household names.  If you look on social media, you’ll find a burgeoning fanbase for the two of you.”  She gives Tom and Daisy a long, thoughtful look.  “It might be better if you two don’t go looking for it.”

“I’m thinking _we_ shouldn’t go looking for it!” Hardy almost yelps and the others laugh.  Even Tom cracks a smile at that one.

“That might be wise,” Isabella says, still grinning.  “Anyway, I just stopped because I’m heading back to Sandbrook.”

Hardy frowns.  “This late?”

“Worried about me?” Isabella asks with a teasing smile.  “That’s rather sweet.”

Miller turns and gives him a thoughtful scowl.  “Yes,” she mutters, “it almost is.”

Hardy rolls his eyes as a flush rises in his cheeks.

“Right, I’m off, then.  No, no,” Isabella says and raises a hand in mock protest, “don’t try to work your way out of that corner to say good-bye, Hardy.  Besides, I’ll be back again when we have more mail for you, and I may stay longer then.  Rebecca was thinking about lending me to you so you can get all of this--” she vaguely waves her hand, encompassing all the boxes and bags in the cramped space, “under control.”

“Oi, Rebecca just wishes she could be here to watch me squirm,” he growls.

Isabella grins, her eyes sparkling.  “Don’t we all?”  She lifts a hand again in farewell and is gone.

“Right,” Ellie says brightly, “why don’t we each take a box out to the car right now.”

“What about Fred?” Daisy says.

“Hardy can look after him,” Miller says, then shifts round to face him, her head tilted back at an absurd angle as she looks up at him, a teasing gleam in her eyes.  “You shouldn’t be lifting any of those boxes anyway, what with your condition.”

That snaps Hardy out of his bemused examination of her eyes.  “It’s not a condition,” he growls.

“It most certainly is,” she says, “and you need to be careful.”

“Clean bill of health at my last check-up, Miller.”

“No more broken heart, right, Dad?” Daisy says with a knowing gleam in her eyes.

He shifts a uncomfortably but smiles, wide and full and sparkling.  “Right,” he says.

Miller turns hastily away and says, “Right, fine, well, Tom, take Fred to one of the coppers out there--we have more than enough babysitters for the next ten minutes--then grab a box or a bag and meet us at the car.”  Hardy raises a puzzled and amused eyebrow as Miller practically trips over her words.  “We can get at least four of these things out of here today.”

“Can we sort through them tonight after dinner?” Daisy asks as everyone hastens to obey her directions.

“I don’t see why not,” Ellie says, giving Hardy a wide, almost evil smile. “It’s probably all from a bunch of little old ladies telling your dad he needs a shave and a haircut.”

“Not to mention a real job,” Hardy mutters as he picks up a box and follows them out the door.

*/*/*/*/*

Dinner is remarkably lively--Miller finally agreed to let him stop off and buy dessert on the way to her place--and even Tom seems to be in high spirits.  In the couple of hours before dinner, the kids had emptied the boxes of mail and set up separate ‘stations’ in the living room, based more on size and type of mail than anything else.  Post cards were by far the largest pile, then regular sized envelopes, followed by manila envelopes of all sizes, and finally a smattering of bulkier packages.

Hardy stops Miller as they’re clearing the table and says, his voice low, “Let’s let the kids go through the postcards and we take everything else.”

She stares, confused.  “Does it matter?”

He raises an eyebrow.  “Think about the kinds of things we get during an active investigation.”

She scowls before realization dawns.  “Oh!  Right. Good thinking.”

They’re as good as their word and they settle in the living room with Tom and Daisy on the floor going through postcards while Hardy and Ellie sit on the couch, pulling open the sealed letters and reading what’s inside.

They set the thankfully rare hate mail to one side and find that most of the mail is sweet—kind, likely old ladies writing a word or two of thanks or comfort to the taciturn and grumpy DI they’d seen on the telly.  Many of the notes tell him he should smile more.  There are a few, small pictures that are innocuous enough, as are the offers to take him out for a drink or a date, although Hardy flushes a deep, dark red at each one and quickly moves to the next piece of mail. 

The first cheque, however, makes his jaw drop and his eyes widen.  Sent by a couple in Florida, the accompanying letter tells him they admired his devotion to the case and hoped he’d use the money to buy himself a nice dinner.

“Or a new shirt,” Ellie mutters.

“Miller,” he says with an exasperated sigh, “you know I can’t accept this!  It isn’t right to profit from the deaths of three people, from the destruction of _how_ many lives?  I did my job, what I had to do, for Pippa and Lisa and Danny and their families.  This...” he makes a sweeping gesture that encompasses the piles of opened mail and the stacks still left to open, “ _this_ makes it seem like it was all just some story, not real at all.  _This_ forgets there are real people forever changed by the actions of a few and the only thing any of us can hope to give them is some measure of justice.”  He glances at Miller.  “Sometimes not even that.”

He shakes his head and sets the cheque and letter aside, where it’s joined by several more.

His discomfort with the words of support and even the money is forgotten when they start to open the manila envelopes and packages.

Amidst the occasional picture he or Ellie have to quickly hide from the kids are case files, or portions of them, along with messages from people desperate for answers about what happened to their loved ones, all of them begging for his--or their--help.

Those are what linger in his thoughts as he and Daisy stroll back to the Traders, and in his dreams that night he sees Pippa and Lisa and Danny and everyone who came before them, watching him with trusting and expectant eyes.

*/*/*/*/*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> */*/*/*/*  
> A/N2 – It may be a result of working so much frickin’ overtime the last few weeks, but I’m finding myself incredibly amused by the idea of Hardy and Miller trying to maneuvre their way around a ton of boxes and the awkwardness that would ensue. I need a life…


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for taking so long to get this chapter posted. It's fairly long so I hope that makes up for the wait. :)
> 
> To everyone who's commented and I haven't replied yet to: I'M SORRY. This is my first weekend to myself in a while so I'm going to get all caught up on comments/feedback...in between trying to catch up for NaNoWriMo15 (I only have about 6500 words written so far...EEEEPPPPP).

*/*/*/*/*

Miller texts him in the morning, tells him where she’s hidden the key and that she’ll be out with the boys until evening.  He wonders what he managed to do right to deserve a friend like her...even if she’s still oddly determined to deny they’re anything even close to friends.

Daisy’s quiet as they stroll towards Miller’s house and step into the living room.  They both silently stare at the piles of mail, and Hardy’s heart sinks again at the sight.

“Was it worth it, Dad?” Daisy asks suddenly, startling him.  “Was all of _this_ worth choosing a dead girl over me?”

Hardy meets her eyes and stands, silent and solemn and guilty, uncertain how to begin, how to make her understand something even he doesn’t fully understand.

“It wasn’t supposed to be one or the other,” Hardy says finally.  His voice is husky and soft yet it seems to shatter the brittle silence.  “And Pippa…you were the same age--you even look alike.  I could have been...I _was_ carrying you from the river that day, and I ultimately failed her, which means I failed you.  She’s you, and Danny, and every other person who can be reduced to nothing in a moment of rage or hate or cold blood.  If I can’t help these people, then...other than you, what is the _point_ of me?

“I took the blame for the pendant because it was the only thing I could do that would save you a bit of pain.  You were only twelve--you needed your mother.  And, ultimately, it was my responsibility, my debt, my...fault.  I knew about the affair and did nothing about it.  If I had...”

He presses his lips into a tight line.

“It was never supposed to be a choice,” he says softly.  “I didn’t think it would make you as angry as it did.”

“How did you _think_ I’d feel?”

“I thought you’d be angry and upset but...” he shrugs helplessly.  “I didn’t think it would hurt you that much.”

“Of course it hurt me, Dad!” she explodes, throwing up her hands and pacing round the living room.  He almost staggers at how much she looks like him in that moment, at how much he loves her and how desperately he wants to take her pain away.  She spins to face him and glares.  “You were my _hero_!  How could you not _know_ that?  I was so proud of you and then you screwed everything up and the town turned against you and you left us—you left me!  And you weren’t a hero anymore, you were just some stupid, incompetent... _arsehole_!  You didn’t even tell me the truth about your health problems, either--how bad it was!”

He scowls.  “It as bad as all that,” he mutters.

“Stop trying to hide things from me!  I know all of it!  I _watched_ that stupid show that’s caused all this!”  She makes a sweeping gesture at the mail stacked in the living room.  “You let me believe you were this...this screw-up!  You let me _hate_ you!”

Her breath catches in a sob.  He moves towards her but she shies away and he stops, standing helpless in the living room.

She swipes at her cheeks.  “You should have told me, Dad.  You and Mum.”

“You were _twelve_!  We wanted to protect you!”

“I shut you out!” she says and now her tears flow in earnest.  “You were so sick--and you never told me!  You were running yourself into the ground trying to hide that woman--and you never told me!”

“You were very angry,” he says softly, remembering those early days after his split with Tess, the confusion, hurt and anger in Daisy’s eyes when she would finally agree to see him.  The long weeks and months between phone calls after he moved to Broadchurch.

“I was angry with the wrong person!  You let me blame you for all of it and all the while you were protecting a woman who didn’t deserve it!”

“Claire--”

“I’m talking about Mum!”

“Don’t lay all of this on her.  It takes two to build a marriage, and most of the time it takes two to lose one as well.  Whatever it is your mother’s found with Dave, it’s obviously something she couldn’t find with me.  You managed to forgive me, darlin’, you’ll forgive your mother, too, if for no other reason than because she’s your mother and she loves you.”

She’s watching him with eyes that are too old for such a young face.  “Why do you insist on protecting her?”

He looks away.

“Are you still in love with her?”

He hesitates, remembering the day before his surgery when he told Tess he missed her, missed being a family.  He doesn’t really know what he hoped would happen, whether he hoped she would want to try again when things weren’t so complicated, or whether he just hoped she would tell him she missed him, too, missed their life together even if it was over.  Maybe he hoped she’d reassure him that somebody somewhere would feel his absence, tell him that at least once in his miserable life he’d been enough to make somebody else happy, even if it didn’t last.

He shakes his thoughts away and looks at Daisy, watching him with those too-old eyes, waiting for his answer.

“She’s a part of you,” he says softly.  “That means I’ll love her forever.  But I’m not in love with her, no.  Not anymore.”

Daisy drops her gaze to her hands and Hardy doesn’t know if she’s sad or relieved by his words.

“I’m sorry, darlin’,” he says, feeling woefully inadequate.

She nods without looking at him and he hides a sigh.  All he can give her is time and hope it’s enough.

*/*/*/*/*

Ellie and the boys arrive home to a cleared-out living room but she doesn’t see hide nor hair of either Hardy until Monday morning when she breezes in to their over-stuffed office to find Hardy Senior crouched behind his computer, scowling at the screen through his glasses.

She pauses, because even though it’s been a couple of weeks and she should be used to this by now, she suddenly feels like it’s a year ago and she’s still resentful he stole her job, still angry that Danny was dead and all they were doing was spinning in circles.  She closes her eyes and wishes childishly that it _was_ a year ago, because at this time last year, she still didn’t know about Joe, and if they could just go back, maybe this time it would be somebody else and not her perfect husband ripping apart her perfect world.

She opens her eyes to find Hardy watching her.  His eyes are wide and dark, an expression she doesn’t want to think too deeply about lurking in their depths.

She shakes herself.  “Right, morning,” she says briskly.  “What’s been happening?”

“We’ve got locations on all the AlphaBetties,” he says, pushing to his feet and leading the way to the murder board.  She sees he’s spent some time rearranging boxes as there’s more room in that part of the office.  She’s surprised to feel a little disappointed that she doesn’t need to stand tucked in front of him anymore but quickly shoves the thought away.

She turns her attention to the board, where Hardy’s already written locations beneath each woman’s picture.

“Bianca James is a police officer in Falmouth, Cornwall.  Della Goodwin’s working at a factory in Leeds.  Both Cora Ramirez and Elena Mckinney are in London.  Cora’s a fashion designer while Elena’s a mid-level manager in a high tech company.  Ginger Delgado is still in Sandbrook, living on the dole.”

They stand and survey the board in thoughtful silence.

“How do we handle this?” Ellie asks.  “Face-to-face or phone calls?”

Hardy puffs out a sigh.  “Face-to-face is always best,” he growls.  “If we start with Bianca, then go to Leeds, London and end in Sandbrook, we can check in with Dottie at the end of it.  Let her know how we’re getting on.”

“Have you already made the arrangements?” she asks sarcastically.

He ignores her as usual.  “I thought next week for Della, Cora, Elena and Ginger, if we can make arrangements for the kids.  We can talk to Bianca on Thursday.”

Ellie gives him a long-suffering glare then nods.  “Daisy can stay at my house for the days we’re away.  Look after Tom and Fred.  Lucy and Beth and Chloe will help, of course.”

“I’ll ask her,” Hardy says.

*/*/*/*/*

Bianca James is a square-framed, square-jawed brunette, stocky with broad shoulders and kind, shrewd eyes.  She looks nothing like what Ellie imagined a ‘Binky’ would look like.  Bianca looks curiously at Hardy and Miller as she shakes their hands then sits across the table from them.

“You’re looking for Frankie Livingstone?” she says as she leans across the table, hands clasped in front of her.

Hardy raises an eyebrow.  “Yes,” he says.  “How did you know?”

She shrugs.  “I visit Archie regularly.  He told me you’d been to see him.  I wondered if you were going to investigate further or give it up as a bad cause.”  She assesses him thoughtfully, dark eyes searching his face.  “You look a lot skinnier on telly,” she says drily.

 

“Well, just proves you shouldn’t believe everything you see on the telly.”

Bianca smirks a little at that.  “Or read in the papers?”

“Or read in the papers,” he agrees.

She chuckles.  “What do you want to know?”

“Tell us about the night Francesca disappeared.”

Bianca laughs outright at that.  “Oi, she always hated being called Francesca.  Reminded her too much of her bloody mother.”

“We understand she didn’t get along with her mother,” Ellie says.

“That’s putting it far too mildly.  They detested each other.  Frankie would have cut the old biddy out of her life entirely if she didn’t feel obligated to her.  She was old, after all, and somebody had to care of her.”

“Did Frankie do a lot for her mother?  Run her errands, that sort of thing?”

“Not if she could get away from it, but the old cow had nobody else.  That tells you a lot about a person right there.  The mum, I mean.”

“Francesca felt sorry for her?”

“Not really.  She just didn’t want to lose out on her inheritance, which the stupid hag periodically threatened to take away whenever she didn’t like what Frankie was doing.  Which was every day, really.”  She smiles thinly.  “This isn’t helping you determine where Archie might have hidden the body, is it?”

“Do you have any ideas?” Hardy says.

She slowly blows out her breath.  “I’ve always assumed he threw her in a dumpster or drove her out to the river the next day and she was just never found.”

“So you think he’s lying then?  When he says he doesn’t remember?”

“He has to be,” she says calmly.  “There just wasn’t enough time that night for him to murder her and hide the body so thoroughly.”

“Yet you still visit him regularly?”

“We were so close,” she says softly, eyes suddenly soft and distant.  “I didn’t want to believe he’d done it at first.  It took the other AlphaBetties several years to convince me it had to have been him.  Doesn’t mean I love him any less, though.”

Hardy and Miller exchange a lightning glance.

“Tell us the sequence of events that night,” Hardy says.

“Dinner was at seven at the Side Street Bar and Grill, then we went to Spot--it was the place to be, back in those days, for Sandbrook, anyway, and it made us dream about when we’d all move to London and we’d be able to go to all the best places.”  Bianca smiles with bitter nostalgia then continues.  “After that was Plymouth Tavern, then the Bunk House Bar and Grill, then Blossom’s, then Chumley’s...after that, well, we’re not sure.”  She gives Hardy a considering look.  “I doubt you knew any of the party spots.”

Hardy raises an eyebrow.  “I was married with a young child at the time,” he says, “but I was also a Detective Inspector.  I knew _all_ the party spots, only most people wished I didn’t.”

Bianca smiles before she continues.  “After Chumley’s, the group began to drift apart then back together again.  I know I passed out in one place and Del stayed with me, got me back on my feet and we met up with the group somewhere else, but I honestly don’t remember much.  I do remember Frankie’s voice as she argued with Archie.  Not so much what was said but the tones, the anger and the _fear_ …it’s the only reason…”  She trails off.

Ellie’s eyes narrow.  “The only reason you believe Archie killed her?”

Bianca sighs.  “That and the confession, yes.  He was devoted to her--so devoted it was almost sickening!  But there was real fear in Frankie’s voice that night.”  She frowns, staring off into space.  “She kept telling him to shut up--that I do remember!  I also remember her telling him he was going to get into trouble if he kept talking that way.”

“Do you remember where this argument happened?”

Bianca’s forehead creases with a frown before she slowly shakes her head.  “No.  I’m sorry.  And I’ve tried to remember--we all have, but no.  After Chumley’s, it’s an almost total blank, nothing but a series of snapshots, really.  I know the row was outside somewhere but…”

“Do you have _any_ suggestions about where Archie might have hidden her body?  You must have thought about it,” Hardy says.

“Of course I’ve thought about it,” Bianca sighs, “but I have no idea.  Like I said, a dumpster or he took her to the river and buried her.”  She leans back in the chair and stares off into space.  “Frankie’s murder is the reason I became a police officer, you know.  It ate at me.  Still does, really.  It messed me up for a long time but when I finally straightened out, I knew I wanted to be a cop.  We may never get the answers we want about Frankie...but maybe I can help others find theirs.  I start as a Detective Sergeant next week.”

*/*/*/*/*

Ellie drives in silence while Hardy broods in the passenger seat.

“What did you make of her story?” Hardy finally says.

She shrugs.  “Nothing new, really.  In line with Archie’s story and the information that’s in the files.”  She frowns.  “If Archie hadn’t confessed, I would have begun to suspect Dottie.”

Hardy nods but says nothing.  Ellie glances over at him and takes in his expression.

“Oh, come on!” she says.

He shrugs.  “She’s the only one so far who believes Archie is innocent.  Maybe it’s because she _knows_ it’s true.”

*/*/*/*/*

They spend Friday going through the case file again, the silence in their office absolute except for the noises of the squad room outside and the occasional comment or question from one or the other of them.

In the early afternoon there’s a knock on the door and they look up to see Isabella.

“Oh, God,” Hardy groans.  “Not more mail!”

Isabella laughs.  “It’s lovely to see you again so soon, too, Hardy.  Yes, more mail.”  She glances round the still-crowded room.  “I see you’ve made quite the dent in this.”

“Been busy,” Hardy mutters, flushing a little, because he hasn’t taken anything else out of the room since they sorted through the mail at Miller’s.

“I’m sure,” Isabella says drily.  “Well, Elaine has kindly agreed to clear some space in your mail room for this batch.”

“How much is there?” he asks, his voice wary.

“A little bit more than this.”

“How is that possible?”  Ellie demands.

Isabella raises an eyebrow.  “ _Close to Home_ is the latest craze in America,” she says kindly.  “Everybody watches it.  Hardy just happened to be featured as it’s hitting its peak.”  She grins.  “Don’t worry--it’s all downhill from here.”

*/*/*/*/*

A couple hours later, Isabella corners Ellie as Ellie’s on her way back from the loo.

“I need to ask you something,” Isabella says.

“All right,” Ellie replies cautiously.

“Are you and Hardy...?”

Ellie frowns.  “Are we what?”

“You know!”

Ellie continues to look blank and Isabella huffs a fondly annoyed sigh and leans closer, lowering her voice. “Are you two having an affair?”

Ellie’s jaw drops.  “Good God, no!”

Isabella gives her a skeptical look.  “No?  Never even crossed your mind, has it?”

“No!  And I don’t know why everyone thinks otherwise!”

“Probably because you were accused of it during your husband’s trial,” Isabella says drily.

“That was the defense team trying to get the bastard acquitted.”

“Worked, too, didn’t it?”

Ellie glares.  “Why are you asking?” she bites out.

“I was thinking I might take a run at him.  Unless you minded.”

Ellie’s jaw drops again.  “A run at-- _Hardy_?”  She can’t help it:  she begins to laugh.

Isabella watches, a smirk on her pretty face.  “So, I take it you don’t mind, then?”

Ellie can only shake her head, still laughing.

“Brilliant,” Isabella says cheerfully.  “Could you, I don’t know, make yourself some tea or something?  Just give me five minutes alone with him.” 

“What—you want to ask him right now?”

Isabella gives a rueful shake of her head.  “I’ve been hinting at him since I met him with no luck so I think it’s time to try the direct approach.  I’m going to see if he’s free tonight.  Maybe go for drinks.”

“What on earth are you going to talk about?” Ellie asks and wonders if Isabella has actually _met_ the man in question.

“I’m not interested in _talking_ to him,” Isabella says and winks.

That stops Ellie in her tracks.

“Oh my God--you’re serious!”

Isabella’s eyes widen with surprise.  “I’m bloody serious!  Have you looked at him?”

“Yes!  Have you?”

Isabella laughs.  “Out of the two of us, I think I’m the only one who’s really seen him, though.  Understandable, I suppose, given everything that’s happened since you met and with, well, everything else.  Well, now that I know I’m not getting in the way of something...”  She grins and rubs her hands together.  “Wish me luck!” she says and Ellie watches in silent disbelief as Isabella hurries to the office.

She’s still not over her shock by the time Isabella pops back out into the hall and gives her a wide grin and a thumbs up before striding away.  Shock gives way to rising anger as she stomps into the office and plants herself in front of his desk.

He looks up at her with a wide-eyed, slightly stunned expression.

“Isabella just asked me out for drinks,” he says.

“And you, like a knob, said yes!”

“Well, I have no reason to say no,” he says then looks at her in sudden horror.  “She’s not married or anything, is she?”

“Not as far as I know, but--”

“That’s all right, then,” he says, relieved.

“She’s practically a child!” Ellie snaps.

“Thirty last birthday,” Hardy says.  “She told me just now,” he adds at Ellie’s incredulous look.

“But what on earth are you going to talk about?”

Hardy’s shock seems to ease and he gives her an amused look.

“Why are you so worried?  If it’s disastrous, it’s disastrous.  We’ll survive.”  He grimaces.  “God knows I’ve survived worse embarrassments.  At least this one will be relatively private...I hope.”

Ellie gobbles a little before subsiding into silence.

“Besides,” Hardy says, “what does it matter to you?  You’re having dinner with Will bloody Seymour tomorrow, aren’t you?”

“Yes, but--”

“Well, if you can go out with that knob I don’t see why I can’t go for drinks with a woman who I actually almost like.”

“You’re such a bloody romantic,” she snaps. “For God’s sake, just don’t come running to me after it turns into a disaster!”

He rolls his eyes.  “It’s drinks.  Even I shouldn’t muck that up!”

*/*/*/*/*

He mucks it up in less than fifteen minutes.

He grins and chuckles after Isabella tells him about her conversation with Miller, and she stops, silently searching his face for so long he shifts uncomfortably under the scrutiny.

Isabella slowly nods.  “I thought so,” she says.

He quickly takes a drink before forcing himself to meet her eyes and raises an eyebrow in question.  It doesn’t help.

“Don’t worry,” she says, “I won’t out you.”

He groans and rubs his forehead.

“Don’t bother trying to deny it,” she says and leans back in her chair with a smile.  “I suspected but, well, I hoped to get a shag out of you at least.”

His eyes go wide and now she laughs, loud and full-bodied.  It makes everyone in Traders turn and stare.  Becca gives him an appraising look, her eyebrows raised, before turning back to the bar.

“Does she know?” Isabella asks.

He scowls down at the table before giving a small shake of his head and gulps almost desperately at his drink.

She hums a little, still amused as she watches him.  “Ah, well--it was worth a try.  Tell me, if I’d met you a year ago, would I have had a chance?”

He flushes again but his gaze is steady.  “You wouldn’t have been interested a year ago,” he says.

“Oh, I don’t know.  I rather like half-dead dark-eyed brooding wankers.”  She takes a sip of her own drink.  “You wouldn’t happen to have a brother, would you?”

*/*/*/*/*

Ellie spends Saturday with her boys then primps for her date with Will.  She must have done something right because when Daisy arrives to mind the boys for the night, her eyes pop wide and she tells Ellie she looks gorgeous.  Ellie blushes, gives her an awkward smile and fights the urge to ask if she knew how Hardy’s date went with Isabella.  It wasn’t her business...and Daisy likely wouldn’t know anyway.

Ellie spends most of the drive to Weymouth brooding over the fact that she usually can’t shake him and today she hasn’t heard from the bloody wanker even once.  Not that she _expected_ him to call her as soon as his date was finished or first thing in the morning in order to give her a detailed account of his evening or anything.

She shoves her irritation away as she pulls into the parking lot of the restaurant and finally turns her thoughts to Will.  She tries to drum up the sense of excited anticipation she felt in Sandbrook and assures herself it’ll all come rushing back once she sees him again.  She’s right, to a certain extent, and she accepts his welcoming kiss with genuine pleasure.

Unfortunately, her interest slowly fades as the evening progresses and she doesn’t understand why.  Will is everything she could hope for:  handsome, charming, amusing, attentive...

...and there’s something about him she just can’t trust, no matter how hard she tries.

She finds herself smiling and nodding and even laughing in all the right places, but she’s somehow separate from it all.  She realizes she’s assessing him the way she assesses a suspect, watching his body language and the ways his eyes flicker when he tells her something.  She realizes with growing discomfort that there’s a disconnect between the smile on his face and the look in his eyes.  She thinks of Hardy’s rare smile and how he smiles with his whole being, the same way he rages or mourns--or loves, she supposes, if his sacrifices for Tess and Daisy are anything to go by.  She wonders if he smiled at Isabella like that last night and her stomach lurches at the thought.

Her phone rings, startling her, and she sees Hardy’s name on the screen.  She feels a spurt of irritation.  She left him alone last night while he was on his date, the least he could do is leave her alone on hers.  She gives Will an awkwardly apologetic smile.

“ _What?_ ” she hisses into the phone.

“Hi, it’s Daisy,” says Hardy’s daughter and Ellie jerks upright in her chair, blood draining from her face.

“Oh, God—he’s in hospital again?”

“What?” Daisy asks, sounding honestly confused.

“Your dad!”  She’s already tossing down her serviette and fumbling for her purse.  “What’s happened to him?”

“Dad’s fine,” Daisy says blankly. “He’s just out in the squad room with Tom...”

Ellie freezes again.  “ _What--?_ ”

“Look,” Daisy says in a rush, “everything’s fine--really!--only our phones got nicked while we were at the arcade and we came here to tell Dad and we’re filling out the report but Dad thought you might worry if you try to call and can’t get us, so he told me to give you a ring so you know everything’s all right.”

Ellie slowly relaxes.  “Right,” she says.  “Right.”

“He’s giving me his phone for the night, so you can get in touch with us,” Daisy continues.

“What’s your dad going to do?”

“He’s working late anyway so I can get him through his desk phone if we need him, or at the hotel.”

Ellie lets out a whooshing breath.  “Awright,” she says.  “Thanks, Daisy.  Let me talk to Tom, yah?”

She speaks briefly to both of her sons, then disconnects the call and explains what happened to Will.  Will watches her with a strangely bitter smirk and there’s a brief, awkward silence when she’s finished.  She fidgets beneath the man’s level, unblinking stare.

“What?” she finally asks, wondering if she has a bit of something on her face.

He shakes his head.  “I’ll never understand what women see in that gloomy, self-righteous wanker.”

“ _What?_ ”

“Never mind.”  He shakes his head and gives her a determined smile.  “Let’s finish our delicious meal and call it a night.”  He lifts an eyebrow at her dropped jaw.  “I like you, Ellie.  I think we could have a lot of fun together, but let’s face it--your heart’s not really in it.”

“I barely know you!”

A laugh explodes from him.  “I’m not talking about love, Ellie!  I’m talking about your interest in enjoying a great shag!”  He shakes his head.  “I saw your face when you thought something had happened to Hardy.”

“We’re not--there’s _nothing--!_ ”

He waves her words away.  “It doesn’t matter,” he says with an insincere smile.  “Let’s finish our meal and the wine then have some dessert and coffee before I see you on your way.  Never let it be said I don’t know how to entertain my date.”

*/*/*/*/*

Hardy blinks owlishly as Miller walks in to their shared office late that night.

“I knew you’d still be here,” she says with a smile that doesn’t even come close to her eyes.

He glances at the clock on his computer with a scowl, then takes off his glasses and leans back in his chair.  He allows himself to admire her pretty dress that shows off a slender waist and hugs the curve of her breasts.  The soft folds of the skirt stop at mid-knee and her shapely legs are shown to best effect by the dainty high-heeled shoes she’s wearing.

He quickly returns his attention to her face.  “What are you doing here, Miller?”

“I work here, remember,” she says, putting her purse down on her desk and wandering to the boxes of mail still stacked in the room.

He scowls.  “You know what I mean.”

She opens a box and stares at the jumble of envelopes and packages.  Hardy watches carefully, seeing the downward curve to her lips, the slumped shoulders.

“What happened?” he asks.

She shrugs.  “Nothing.  It was a lovely dinner.”  She gives him a wide-eyed look.  “Expensive!”

“The chips came on a real plate, then, did they?”

She scowls and huffs an irritated sound but he can tell her heart isn’t in it.  He looks at the time again and frowns, doing the math. 

“Well, either you didn’t have sex or Seymour doesn’t take long.”

Her head snaps round and she glares, and horror creeps over him as he realizes what he’s said.

“How long do you think it takes?” she snarls.

“Well, longer than the fifteen minutes it must have taken if you’re back here already!”

Her glare intensifies before her expression changes and she dissolves into giggles.

“No,” she says with a grin, “no sex.  What about you?”

His eyes open wide.  “What about me what?”

“Drinks with Isabella?”  She raises an eyebrow.

He flushes.  “Drinks were...nice,” he says lamely.

“Take more than fifteen minutes?”

“The drinks?”

Ellie rolls her eyes.  “The _sex_ , Hardy!”

He shrugs as he picks up a pen then puts it down again.  “No sex.  I like her too much.”

“You only sleep with people you _don_ _’_ _t_ like?”

His smile is wry.  “Seems that way.  I don’t know why this is suddenly about me, Miller.  What happened with Will?”

“Nothing.  It was a perfectly lovely evening.  We had dinner and drinks and then I kissed him good-night and came home.  To Broadchurch, I mean.  Didn’t feel like going to bed quite yet, so came here.  What are you working on?”

He rubs his hands over his face and sighs.  “Re-reading the statements about the night Francesca disappeared.  Comparing them to the stories we got from Archie and Bianca.”

“Anything?”

He shakes his head, his face glum.

She sighs and turns back to the open box in front of her.  “What are you going to do with all this?”

He shifts uncomfortably.  “I don’t know.”

“What does Isabella say about it?”

He sighs as he pushes himself to his feet and walks to her side.

“She told me again to read and reply to them.”

“She must be joking—especially if there’s even more waiting for you in the mail room!”

He picks up a handful of letters and drops them again.  “That’s what I said.”

Ellie frowns down at the box full of envelopes and packages then says, “Tess and Dave aren’t doing anything are they?”

He snorts.  “They’re not likely to respond kindly to _my_ fans.”

“How, exactly, is anything that’s happened since Claire spilled their secret even remotely your fault?”

He shrugs.  “Dave thinks it is.”

“Well, then Dave’s a bigger knob than you are.”

He stares at her.  “I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me, Miller.”

She gives him a rueful grimace but her eyes are soft as she looks at him.  “Well, don’t expect it to ever happen again.”

He allows himself to admire her eyes and the curves and lines of her face before he slowly smiles.  Her eyes widen and she quickly turns back to the open box.  She lifts out a thick manila envelope and says, “This is probably another case file.”

His smile fades away and he nods.

“We should read them,” she says softly.  “Maybe there’s _something_ we can do.”

His mouth twists.  “We can’t save them all, Miller.”

“They don’t want to be saved, Hardy, they want _answers_.”

He looks at the envelope in her hands, his eyes dark and sad.  “We can’t give all of those, either.”

“Does that mean we shouldn’t try?”

He looks at her, his head bowed, hair flopping over his forehead, and Ellie’s fingers itch to brush it away from his eyes.  The urge only grows stronger as he gives a slight shake of his head, his gaze never wavering from hers.

“Well, then,” she says briskly, “why don’t we go through all these boxes and quickly sort out those that are most likely case files.  We can put them in the filing cabinet for now and review them later.”

They both silently consider the boxes stacked around the room.

“Tonight?” he asks doubtfully.

“You have anything better to do?” she asks.

He sighs and she doesn’t even try to hide her smirk as she moves the box to the table and begins digging through its contents.

*/*/*/*/*


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe it's been almost two weeks since I last updated!!! Time is going too fast again!
> 
> If I have any outstanding messages/reviews that I haven't responded to yet, know that I thank you for them and I WILL be responding (likely on the weekend). *flails*

*/*/*/*/*

Ellie and Hardy work until almost one but in the end they get through all the boxes and even combine a few to make a little more room in the office.  Hardy replaces the last one on the stack and Ellie glances at the time and says, “Come on, I’ll take you home.”

“Well, the hotel anyway,” he groans, rubbing the small of his back and twisting his torso to stretch.  She watches the way his shoulder muscles move beneath his white shirt and wonders what everyone keeps bleating on about.  He’s just the same skinny streak of Scottish grumpiness he’s always been...although he seemed more than broad enough when she’d been tucked in front of him as they studied the murder board.

_Out of the two of us, I think I’m the only one who’s really seen him._   She frowns at the memory of Isabella’s words.

Ellie realizes he’s turned and is watching her with a questioning frown.  She starts a little and hurriedly says, “No, my place.”  She’s slightly horrified she’s made the offer, but it’s too late now so she barrels on.  “Daisy’s hopefully asleep and I have an extra sofa you can use.”  He raises an eyebrow, and she adds, “That way we can finalize our plans for next week over breakfast.  Leeds, then London, then Sandbrook, right?”

His expression doesn’t change and she realizes she’s admiring his eyes and the puzzled crinkles at their edges as he stares at her.

“Or I can just be at your house in time for breakfast,” he says mildly.

“What--my sofa not good enough for you?”

“I’m sure it’s perfectly lovely,” he says drily, “but do you really want to explain to Daisy and Tom how you went on a date with one man and ended up with a different one sleeping on your sofa in the morning?”

“Well, better than in my bed!”

She’s kicking herself as soon as the words leave her mouth and she silently curses Lucy and Isabella and Will and everyone, really, who ever put such a stupid idea in her head in the first place.

He’s seemingly frozen in place, with wide, dark eyes and a flush creeping into his cheeks.  He shifts as the silence stretches between them and her eyes follow his hands and his long, surprisingly graceful fingers as he rests them on his lean hips and she has a sudden sharp desire to see how those hands would feel against her skin.

Oh, shit, she thinks with dawning horror.  Oh, shit, shit, shit, shit, _shit_.

He clears his throat and her eyes dart back to his as he says, “Better, yah, but still not easy to explain.  What time’s breakfast?”

*/*/*/*/*

He arrives at the appointed time and all of Ellie’s hopes that her strange reactions to him were caused by sleep deprivation are immediately dashed when she takes in his sleep-and-breeze-ruffled hair and almost-pleased-to-see-her scowl.  She doesn’t know how to act and she begins babbling almost from the moment she sees him on her threshold.  She knows she’s being awkward and over-compensating and his scowl is getting more bewildered and annoyed by the minute but she can’t seem to help herself.

Thankfully the kids help to ease things somewhat, and breakfast is rambunctious and loud although her confusion and embarrassment isn’t helped by Hardy actually chuckling once or twice.  It’s easier once they start talking about work and making plans for the next week.  Daisy happily agrees to stay with the boys while they’re away and they decide to leave the next afternoon after they run a few errands and get new cell phones for the kids.

“I may need to stay in Sandbrook for a few extra days, to talk with Tess,” Hardy says with a significant look at Daisy.  “We need to make some decisions.”

She shrugs.  “I like it here and I want to stay with you.”

“Have you told your mother that?”

She drops her gaze to her plate and shifts uncomfortably.

“Daisy.”

“I’ll call her today,” she mumbles.

“Right,” Hardy says, “well, once that’s done, we’ll get you registered in school when I’m back.”

“I can get the paperwork for you,” Ellie says.  “I have to go there for Tom anyway so I may as well run by tomorrow and pick up a packet for you.”

His look is thoughtfully assessing before he nods.

Tom and Daisy exchange glances and Daisy says, “Listen, Dad, you know Traders isn’t really the best place for us--I know, there hasn’t been anything else!  It’s just--”  She and Tom exchange another nervous glance before she blurts, “we saw a house for lease yesterday.”

Hardy’s eyebrow is practically in his hairline and his voice is warily suspicious as he says, “Yah? Looked nice, did it?  At least from the outside?”

Daisy nods eagerly and he shoots a questioning glance at Miller, but she only grimaces and gives him small shrug.  She’s as much in the dark as he is.

“It’s across the common.  From here,” Daisy says then holds her breath.

He blinks and leans back.  “Next to the Latimers?”

“No, no--on the third side of the common.  We’d be across from both the Latimers and here,” Daisy says.  “So, neighbours but not too close, yah?”

His eyes go wide.  “I...I don’t--”

“Can we at least look at it?” Daisy begs.

He risks a glance at Miller, who’s looking surprisingly calm at the idea considering she’s been acting like a skittish cat all morning, to the point where he’s wondering if he’s given himself away somehow.  If Isabella recognized the truth in less than fifteen minutes...he comforts himself with the thought that while Miller’s been strangely nervous she’s doesn’t appear to be horrified or appalled, so his secret should still be safe. 

Or she’s chosen to ignore it, which works just as well.

He returns his attention to the matter at hand and his daughter’s hopeful face.  “Living so close to somebody you work with every day isn’t always a good idea, Daisy.”

Daisy scoffs.  “We lived next door to Uncle Charlie and Aunt Rachel when Uncle Charlie was still working at the police station.”

“He wasn’t my partner,” Hardy says weakly.  “He wasn’t even a police officer!”

She rolls her eyes.  “You married Mum, and you were her partner before you were her boss!”

“And look how well that turned out!”  He winces, eyes dark with apology, but she’s just giving him her long-suffering, adults-are-so-stupid look.

“Ellie isn’t Mum,” she says, “and we’re talking about living across an entire field!  You wouldn’t have to see each other if you don’t want to.  Besides, where are you having breakfast right now?”

Hardy’s mouth opens and closes soundlessly while Miller laughs.

“She’s got you there, Hardy,” she says as she stands and begins clearing the table.  It’s the most natural she’s sounded—or acted—since he got here.

Hardy sighs. “Fine,” he growls, “if it’s still available when we’re back, we’ll take a look at it.”

“We-ell,” Daisy says and gives him a beaming smile.  His eyes narrow.

“You’ve already talked to the leasing agent, haven’t you,” he says flatly.

She doesn’t look guilty at all as she says, “We can see it at eight tomorrow morning.  That still leaves you plenty of time to pick up the phones and do whatever else you need to do before leaving for Leeds.”

“Whatever else--like signing a lease, you mean?”

She blinks wide, innocent eyes.  “If that’s what happens.”

He groans and hangs his head in defeat while Miller laughs beside him.

*/*/*/*/*

Hardy grudgingly admits the house is nice enough and large enough, and the rent is reasonable.  He signs the paperwork with only a token grumble and a long-suffering glare at his daughter but he can’t deny his own relief at the prospect of getting out of hotels for the first time in three months and having a place to call his own again.

Even if it is only leased.

Ellie, meanwhile, gets the phones and picks up the school registration packet, and they’re both feeling smugly satisfied as they kiss their children good-bye and start the long drive to Leeds.  To the secret relief of both of them, all the awkwardness and discomfort of the previous day is gone like it had never existed.

*/*/*/*/*

Della Goodwin is a far cry from her picture of almost eleven years earlier.  She’s no longer the smiling, bright-eyed, confident girl in the photographs pinned to their murder board.  Her face is still pretty but it’s now wreathed in fat instead of smiles, her wary eyes dimmed with shadowed pain.  She fidgets nervously at the table across from them, her fingers drumming on the arms of her chair or restlessly searching across the table top.

Ellie glances at Hardy and sees the predatory gleam in his eyes as he stares at Della.

“What do you remember about the night Francesca disappeared?” he says, leaning forward, intent and focused.

Della shrinks back.  “I try not to remember anything about that night,” she says.

“Because of Francesca or because of Archie?”

“Both.”  Her gaze slides away and she blinks rapidly.  “Frankie was...well, she was the brains of the group, but Archie...Archie was the heart, yah?”

Hardy’s eyebrow goes up at that.  “Because he was the only man?”

She laughs, light and joyous, and the young girl she’d been shines through.  “Oh, God, no!  Because he was the most sensitive, the one who would do anything for any of us, because he loved us all so much.”

“But he loved Francesca the most?” Ellie says.

Della’s smile disappears and the young girl with it.  “We-ell, yes, if you can call what that turned into ‘love’.”

“What does that mean?” Ellie demands and Hardy gives her a swift warning glance as Della shrinks into herself again.  Ellie forces herself to relax and gentles her voice.  “What did it turn into?”

“He was so...”  Della trails off, frowning.

They sit in silence, waiting her out.

“Obsessed,” she says finally.  “I think that’s the only word to describe it.  Anything Frankie wanted, Frankie got, no matter how daft it was.”  She shakes her head.  “I can’t believe he really intended to leave for London.”  She glances at their puzzled faces.  “Frankie was dead set against it.”

“Were you surprised when he confessed?” Hardy asks.

She grimaces.  “Surprised doesn’t even begin to describe what I felt!  I never...”  she shakes her head.  “Archie isn’t like that.  He isn’t violent--I never even saw him kill a spider, not even for Frankie!--and we spent almost all our waking hours together.”

“He was the heart and he loved you all, was obsessed with Frankie--yet he was the first one to at least claim to be leaving,” Ellie says.

“We all wanted to.  If he had made it up to London, we would have probably followed, I imagine, trying to make our fortunes.  He never took the chance.”

“Well, Francesca did disappear the Saturday before he left.”

“But he never tried to leave again even after the search for Frankie stopped and the investigation ended.”

“Do you think that’s evidence of his guilt?  Do you think he’s lying when he says he doesn’t remember what happened that night?”

Della scowls.  “He has to be,” she says flatly.  “Making her disappear that thoroughly had to have taken some time.  He couldn’t just throw her in the garbage bin and hope it got picked up before anyone started searching for her.”  She pauses, frowning, hands moving restlessly over the table.  “Could he?” she asks almost plaintively.

“He could,” Hardy says gently and Ellie slides a glance his way.  “He could have just got lucky that way.  It happens sometimes.”

Della blinks teary eyes as his words sink in.  “Oh,” she says in a small voice.

“Can you walk us through what you remember of that night?”

She sighs.

“Dinner was at seven at the Side Street Bar and Grill, then we went to Spot.”  She smiles suddenly, bright and shining, and Ellie feels a sudden kinship with the girl, understanding her lost innocence.  “Such a great place to go!  I wanted to stay there because it was always so much fun, but Elena and Frankie and Ginger insisted we keep going.  Anyway, we went from Spot to Plymouth Tavern, then Bunk House Bar and Grill--” she pulls a face.  “Not my favourite and thankfully it went out of business quick.”  She sees Ellie’s puzzled look.  “It was an American western kind of place.”  She shakes her head.  “Oi, what were they thinking?  Thankfully we didn’t stay long and went to Blossom’s then Chumley’s.  After that, it gets vague.”

“Do you remember where Bianca passed out?” Ellie asks.

She scowls.  “Not really.  I know it was small and dark, a pub, you know, one of the old ones.  Lots of wood and weird smells and old men drinking in corners,” she says vaguely.

Hardy raises an eyebrow and leans forward, dark eyes suddenly sharp and intent.

“Do you remember where you met up with the group once Bianca was awake enough to walk?” he asks.

Della frowns, thinking, then shakes her head.

“Was it another pub or was it a modern bar?”

She thinks again, then slowly says, “Another pub, I think.  Quiet, because I think that’s where Archie and Frankie started their row.  At least...” she trails off, frowning, then says, “I remember Frankie yelling, and it was just... _so loud_ , and she was so angry and scared and I remember I was worried we were going to get kicked out and I didn’t want to be taken home by the cops again because my Dad would have beat my arse nine ways to Sunday and tried to stop me from seeing the AlphaBetties again.”

“Do you remember what they were arguing about?” Ellie asks.

Della shakes her head, her hands searching, searching, searching over the table.  “I’ve tried to remember, but no.  I just know Frankie was angry and scared...and loud.  Very loud.  It all just echoes in my head.”

*/*/*/*/*

Hardy and Miller don’t really speak about the interview until they’re on their way to London, when Miller says, “What caught your attention?”

He slides a glance her way.  “The old pubs.  They’re in a completely different area of Sandbrook than the bars they started in.”  He pauses, staring out the window.  “The old pubs are close to the river.”

She looks at him in surprise. “You mean everyone’s been looking in the wrong places all this time?”

He lifts his shoulder in a slight shrug.

“How far apart are the old pubs from where they started out?”

“Far enough they’d need to drive or take taxis to get from one to the other.”

“There aren’t any statements from taxi drivers in the files,” Ellie says slowly.

“I know.”

*/*/*/*/*

Cora Ramirez is tall, slender and stunningly beautiful--which is only to be expected from a woman who was once a model before she moved on to designing her own clothes.  She’s poised and coolly collected, watching them with calm, dark eyes, her long black hair tumbling round her shoulders in artful waves.

“I’m surprised you’re investigating Frankie’s murder,” she says and even her voice is beautiful.  “In case you didn’t know, the killer confessed and is in prison right now.”

“Not her murder,” Hardy says briskly.  “Her mother asked us to locate her body.”

Cora’s face changes and for a moment there’s no beauty there at all.  “That old cow!  Why would she want to find Frankie now, after all this time?”

Ellie raises an eyebrow at Cora’s reaction.  “She’s an aging mother who wants to bury her daughter,” she says mildly.

Cora makes a harsh, scoffing noise.  “That woman made Frankie’s life a living hell.  She just wants to control Frankie even into the grave.”

“Or at least have a grave she can go to in order to try and control her,” Ellie snaps and Hardy gives her a warning look.

Cora sneers a little.  “After everything that woman did to Frankie, forgive me for not having much sympathy for her ‘grief’.”  She deliberately turns her attention to Hardy.  “I gave my statement to the police eleven years ago when Frankie disappeared.  I have nothing more to add.”  She rises gracefully to her feet.  “I’ll see myself out.”

*/*/*/*/*

“Well, that wasn’t quite how I expected that interview to go,” Ellie grumbles as she angrily stabs her fork into the chips on the plate in front of her.

Hardy shrugs.  “We can always try again if we need to,” he says.

Ellie gives him a hard look.  “You don’t think we’re going to learn anything new, do you?”

He shrugs again.  “We already learned they may have been in a completely different part of Sandbrook than anyone originally thought.  That’s something.”

Ellie chews, glaring hard at him.  He looks up, hair hanging in his eyes, and raises an eyebrow.  She pauses in mid-chew because—bloody hell--Lucy and Isabella were right:  he really _is_ attractive.

“Miller?”

She starts a little, feeling a hot flush creep up her cheeks as he gives her puzzled scowl.  “Yes,” she says, nodding furiously, “I suppose that’s something.”

His intense eyes don’t waver from her face as he picks up his water and she watches his long, graceful fingers wrap round the glass and lift it to his lips.  Heat curls in her stomach and she thinks this is the worst possible time to suddenly get turned on by Hardy, of all the bloody people.  She forces herself to refocus on the subject at hand.

“Do you find it odd that the stories have all been so consistent?” she says.

“Bloody odd,” he growls, “but it’s been eleven years and they’re all friends.  If they’ve repeatedly talked about it through the years, trying to make sense of things, then I can see them settling on a story that makes sense of the bits and pieces they each remember, and convincing themselves it’s the truth.”

“You don’t think it is?”

“I don’t know what it is yet,” he sighs.  He gives her a steady look.  “It’s not the consistent story that worries me.”

“No? What is it, then?”

He raises an eyebrow.

“The fact they all conveniently managed to lose their memories at exactly the same time?” she says drily.

He smiles slowly and the heat curling in her stomach practically explodes and she’s torn between running from the restaurant like the fires of hell are licking at her heels and leaping across the table to tackle him to the ground.

“It seems to be a rather interesting coincidence,” he says, snapping her back to the fact they’re actually working, and now is not the time to get distracted.

She clears her throat and says, “Yes, isn’t it,” and keeps her eyes on her food for the rest of the meal.

*/*/*/*/*

Elena Mckinney is extremely polished and just as extremely professional, her eyes calm and appraising.  She answers their questions without hesitation or resentment, and like everyone else--and they assume Cora has the same story--her memories of the night are foggy after the group left Chumley’s.  She does confirm that Bianca and Della were left in one of the old pubs, but she doubts they’d even noticed the name of the place before they staggered in.

“What do you remember about the row between Archie and Francesca?” Hardy asks.

Elena shrugs.  “Not much.”

“So it happened after you left Chumley’s then?”

She gives him a faint smile.  “Must have, because I remember everything--I assume--before then.”

“Was it after the entire group was together again?”

She nods.

“Do you remember anything about the places you went after Della and Bianca rejoined the group?  More pubs or more modern bars?” Miller asks.

“Oh, more pubs,” she says then pauses.  “I think,” she adds.  She gives them a rueful smile.  “We’ve talked about this so much, trying to remember, I’m not always sure anymore what truly happened and what we’ve decided _must_ have happened, if you know what I mean.”

“Oh, aye,” Hardy says, “I know exactly what you mean.”

*/*/*/*/*

They spend a pleasant evening in London, going to a restaurant neither had been to before, deliberately avoiding any place they’d gone with their ex-spouses.  To Ellie’s relief, she’s only slightly distracted by his hands or eyes or mouth or, well, everything, really, but she manages to ignore it all and keep things on the slightly acerbic, teasing level she’s used to.  The only awkward moment is at the end, when they stroll back to the hotel and their rooms across the hall from each other.

For one wild moment, Ellie thinks about kissing him good-night, just to see what it feels feel like, or just to see his reaction...or maybe her own.  Maybe it’s all she needs to get this insanity out of her system.  After all, she’d been excited to go for dinner with Will only to end up... _disappointed_ by her reactions to his kisses.  Maybe it’s all just a sign she isn’t ready to move on from Joe—what she thought she’d had with Joe.  No matter what her mind says, her body shows her the truth.  Well, it’s not a surprise, really, after all, it isn’t even a year yet and--

“Miller?”

She looks at Hardy’s questioning face and heat rushes into her cheeks.

“Right,” she says abruptly, “good-night.  Meet at seven for breakfast?  Then on to Sandbrook and Ginger Delgado, yah?”

He nods and she gives him an awkward nod in return as she hastily unlocks the door then stands pressed against it when she’s scrambled inside and closed it again.

She needs to pull herself together, she tells herself sternly, her cheeks hot, or Hardy’s going to think she’s lost her mind.

*/*/*/*/*

Hardy lets himself in to his hotel room and thinks he may have to take these trips on his own from now on.  Miller seems to be having trouble focusing and he wonders if it’s because it’s coming up to a year since he arrested Joe and that’s weighing on her, or if it’s because of Will bloody Seymour or if it’s because she’s worried about the boys or if it’s just because she’s with _him_.

He could just ask her, he supposes as he gets ready for bed, but it will likely be as successful as all the other times he’s tried to reach out to her and be supportive...well, as supportive as he can get.

Well, he assures himself as he slip beneath the covers and turns off the light, at least that awkward moment in the hallway couldn’t possibly be his fault this time.  He’d just been standing there, minding his own business.

*/*/*/*/*

Ginger Delgado is bleary-eyed and dishevelled, smelling of stale cigarette smoke and even staler beer.  Her face is haggard, skin already sagging in her cheeks and she sits at the table with one foot propped up on the chair, arms round her knee as her eyes dart from one to the other of them, then round the room and back, only to begin the cycle all over again.

“I don’t remember much,” she mutters, “especially once we left Chumley’s.”

“Do you remember _anything_ at all after Chumley’s?” Hardy asks.

“I just said I didn’t,” she snaps and shakes her head.  “Can’t believe you’re famous for your detecting skills.”

Hardy ignores the comment.  “No flashes of memories?  Snapshots, even?  Do you remember the row between Francesca and Archie?”

She shakes her head as she plucks restlessly at a small fraying hole in her jeans, her gaze roving round the room and never settling for long on either him or Miller.  “I must not have been there for that,” she says.  “I know a couple of the others remember it, but I don’t remember anything.”

“Do you remember where Bianca and Della were left behind?”

She snorts a little.  “Binky was always passing out--she was such a lightweight!  Still is, I expect.  Makes it tough to know what was that night and what happened before.”

“Not even a guess?”

Ginger shakes her head.  “Can I go now?” she asks.

They wait until the door closes behind her then Ellie says, “She’s lying.”

“Oh, aye,” Hardy says. “The question is why.”

*/*/*/*/*

They stop at the police station so Hardy can, as he puts it, ‘call in a favour’, and Ellie watches with bemusement as he greets a mousy, fifty-ish Detective Sergeant with a crisp, “Craig.”

Craig looks mousy, but her smile as she looks up is sparkling.  “Alec Hardy,” she says, “does this mean I’m forgiven?”

“We-ell,” he says, “maybe.  If you do something for me.”

Craig gives Ellie a long-suffering look.  “Of course,” she says drily, “but first, tell me why I never saw hide nor hair of you except in the news while you were living in Sandbrook yet now you’re standing at my desk with that look in your eyes?”

“‘That’ look?” Ellie asks, amused.

“You know the one--that ‘please, please, please do this one thing for me and I’ll never ask you for anything else ever again’ look.  Don’t believe it.  There’ll always be something else.”

Hardy rolls his eyes.  “Does that mean no?”

“Well, I did fuck up with Ashworth, so I guess I owe you, although it all worked out in the end, didn’t it?  What do you need?”

“I need you to go through the files on all the Jane Doe’s over the last eleven years and tell me where the remains were found.”

She raises an eyebrow.  “You didn’t get the files earlier?”

“Oh, aye, but giving me a list of where each one was found would be helpful.”

She gives him a stern, tight-lipped glare then rolls her eyes.  “Stop looking at me like that—you’ll have it in your e-mail in a couple days.”

“You’re a star, Craig,” he all but purrs and Ellie hides a shiver, “and if you come through on this, I _might_ decide to forgive you for the Ashworth thing.”

“At least until you need another favour.”

*/*/*/*/*

They’re staying at Rachel and Charlie’s, and Tess joins them for dinner that evening.  She’s subdued but only slightly less smug than Ellie remembers and she wonders what it would take to destroy that smugness for good.  The meal is friendly enough, but Ellie’s aware of Tess’ eyes shifting between her and Hardy with an assessing gleam.

“We’re moving into a house at the start of the month,” Hardy says in response to a question from Tess about how long he planned on staying at Traders.

“Oh?”  Tess says.  “Where?”

“Across the common from my place,” Ellie says brightly, and Tess’ eyes narrow as she glances sharply at her.

“Really.”

“First half-decent place that’s come up for lease since we’ve been in Broadchurch,” Hardy says, seemingly oblivious to Tess’ flat tones.  “We’ll be almost the same distance from the Latimers as well, which is good, since Daisy and Chloe seem to like each other well enough.”

“Ah.  You chose the house for Daisy, then.”

“Daisy chose the house,” Hardy clarifies, “I just signed the lease.”

“How do you feel about it, Ellie?” Rachel asks with a grin.  “You work together every day, now you’re neighbours?”

“We’ll hardly see each other,” Hardy says quickly.

“Or no more than we already do,” Ellie says.  “Our backyards face each other, but really, we don’t need to cross paths outside work unless we want to.”

“You’ve thought this through,” Tess says, a tight smile on her lips as she looks from one to the other.

Hardy frowns.  “We barely tolerate each other when we’re working together,” he says and Ellie rolls her eyes.  “If we can’t avoid each other on the weekends, God knows where we’ll end up.”

“Right,” Tess says but she doesn’t sound convinced.

Hardy’s frown changes to a scowl before he turns to Rachel and Charlie.  “I can get everything out of your cellar after the first.”

“We’ll bring it down,” Charlie offers and smiles fondly at Rachel.  “You really liked Broadchurch, didn’t you?”

Rachel nods.  “It’s a lovely little place.”

“Dave and I can bring Daisy’s things down that weekend as well,” Tess says, and there’s a sudden stillness at the table as all eyes swivel towards Hardy.

He raises an eyebrow.  “I’m sure Becca will love to have you at the Traders,” he says carefully.  “Two rooms will be coming free right then.”

Tess’ smile turns a little cruel.  “Maybe we’ll come down a little earlier.  I haven’t seen Daisy much this summer.”

Hardy takes a sip of wine, his eyes never wavering from Tess’.  He swallows and deliberately sets his glass back on the table.  “I’m sure Daisy would love to see you,” he says.

Tess drops her gaze to the table with a grimace.  “We’ll come down sometime next week.  Help you get the house ready once you get the keys.”

His eyes widen.  “And stay at Traders?”

She shrugs.  “Why not?”

*/*/*/*/*

“Are you going to be all right with Tess and Dave staying in the same hotel as you?” Ellie asks as they drive back to Broadchurch in the morning.

“Do I look like I’m all right with it?” he growls.

She drives in silence for a moment, her stomach dropping at the anger in his voice.  “Do you still love her that much?” she asks softly.

“I don’t love her at all, but I still have some pride!  Having to be in the same hotel as my ex-wife and the man she threw me over for--” he runs a hand through his hair and grinds his teeth.  “I’d swear she’s doing it deliberately if she hadn’t been so bloody happy to be shot of me.”

Ellie raises an eyebrow but only says, “Well, if it gets to be too much, I have a sofa you can sleep on.”

His mouth quirks up into something that’s almost a smile.  “You may regret that offer,” he says.

“Probably,” she sighs, “but I can’t let you suffer, even if it’s, well, you.”

That surprises a short chuckle out of him and she melts a little at the sound.

“Well, I’ll do my best to be a good house-guest, Miller, so you won’t regret making the offer.”

Too late, she thinks even as she smiles at him.

*/*/*/*/*


	13. Chapter 13

*/*/*/*/*

The report from Craig arrives Tuesday afternoon and, based on locations close to the old pubs in town, they send in the request for DNA testing on the remains of a half-dozen Jane Doe’s.  It’ll take months for the results to get back since the case isn’t just on the back-burner; it’s been off the stove ever since Archie confessed.

They glumly acknowledge on Thursday morning that other than circling the location on the map where the old pubs were located, they appear to be once again at an impasse.  They know Ginger Delgado lied to them, but they don’t know why or what, exactly, she’s hiding, or why she still feels the need to hide anything at all when it comes to Francesca’s disappearance.

“Maybe she saw the murder,” Hardy says.

“But why lie about it?  Archie confessed.”

“Maybe it wasn’t Archie.  Or maybe it wasn’t only Archie.”

She raises an eyebrow.  “One of the other AlphaBetties had a hand in it?”

He shrugs, leaning back in his chair, long and lanky, hair standing on end from where he’s been running his fingers through it.  The sight doesn’t distract her as much as it had last week.  Of course, they’d parted ways on Friday night and hadn’t seen each other again until Monday morning, when she walked in to find him as grumpy and taciturn as ever, crouched behind his desk and glaring at the computer.  To Ellie’s relief, he’s been just... _him_ most of the week.  Although she’s randomly surprised throughout each day by her suddenly far-from-platonic reactions to him, it’s not often, really.  She hasn’t been distracted at all today, for instance.  Maybe it means she’s getting used to...whatever-this-is or maybe, she thinks, suddenly hopeful, it means whatever-this-is is already fading away.

That thought is immediately disproved as he pushes himself to his feet with a frustrated growl and strides back to the murder board, and she catches herself checking out his arse before she realizes what’s she’s doing and hastily follows him.

She stifles an appalled groan and just manages to stop herself from covering her face in embarrassment.  They’re at _work_ , for God’s sake, and this is no place to be ogling anybody’s arse!  Even if he wasn’t her former boss and, well... _Hardy_ , of all people.

She fetches up beside him and they both glare at the murder board as if it’s deliberately hiding the answers to all their problems and if they stare long enough, a large red arrow saying “Francesca is here” will suddenly appear.

They both turn at a knock on the door to find their CI watching them with a bemused smirk.

“I see you finally managed to make some space in here,” she says.

“A little, yah,” Hardy says as he prowls back towards the door and Ellie forces herself to keep her eyes trained on Elaine.  “I’ll get the rest moved out after the first.”

“Don’t forget what’s in the mail room,” Elaine says, “but that’s not why I’m here.”

“Didn’t think it was,” he sighs.

“Any more progress?” she asks, indicating the murder board with a tilt of her head.

“We might get lucky with the DNA tests,” Ellie says, “but we won’t know for months.”

“Right,” Elaine says briskly, “well, we seem to be having a bit of a crime spree out here.  Think you two can lend a hand?”

*/*/*/*/*

Hardy’s quickly reminded that ‘crime spree’ in Broadchurch has a much different meaning than anywhere else in England and, possibly, the world.  But the petty crimes that come their way keep them busy enough to once again let him put off reading the case files sent by the people who saw him on the telly.

Tess and Dave arrive Thursday afternoon and promptly take Daisy away with them for a short holiday.  Hardy’s relieved to not have to deal with Tess and Dave staying in the same hotel with him, but he misses Daisy immediately.  He thinks it’s worse than when he’d first left Sandbrook.  He absently rubs the spot where his pacemaker is located.  Of course, he had other things on his mind then, and he’d been trying to protect her from so much more than just her mother’s infidelity.

He glances across at Miller, who’s frowning at her computer and scribbling notes.  At least she’s been less skittish the last week or so, and he briefly toys with the idea of asking her what had been going.  He quickly decides against it.  She’s never been shy about pointing out where he’d gone wrong so maybe whatever was bothering her really _didn’t_ have anything to do with him.

At least he has hope.

He hides a self-deprecating smirk and turns his attention back to his work.

*/*/*/*/*

Daisy returns the following Saturday with a mulish set to her mouth and angry fire in her eyes and Hardy’s heart drops when she barely suffers his welcome hug and kiss against the top of her head before she disentangles herself and turns away.

He looks from her to Tess and raises an eyebrow in question.  Tess just gives a small shake of her head and says nothing.

He turns back to Daisy.  “You’ll be staying at Miller’s tonight,” he says.  “Uncle Charlie and Aunt Rachel are on their way and the hotel doesn’t have enough rooms available.”

“Chloe said I could spend the night at her place,” Daisy says.

“If it’s all right with her parents,” Hardy says and she scowls.

“We’re sixteen, Dad--Chloe’s almost seventeen!  They’re not _babysitting_ us!”

“Keep that tone and I may ask them to,” he snaps.  She glares and flounces off.  He shakes his head, mouth pressed into a tight line as he scrolls through his phone for Beth’s number. 

Chloe’s already talked with Beth and she’s agreed, and he goes to find Daisy where she’s sitting huddled into a small ball in an armchair near the entrance of the hotel.  She looks young and vulnerable and his worry about what happened while she was gone increases.  He crouches down so he can look in her eyes.

“I’m sorry, darlin’,” he says, “I shouldn’t have snapped at you.  Are you going to tell me what’s got you so upset?”

She looks over his shoulder and he glances behind him to see Tess and Dave hovering in the doorway leading to the pub.  He turns back to Daisy, eyebrows raised.

“Later,” Daisy says and gets to her feet.  He stands as well and she shifts her weight from one foot to another, then mutters, “I’m sorry, too, Dad.  I’m not mad at _you_.”

“Awright,” he sighs.  “The Latimers are waiting for you.  We’re getting the house tomorrow, so meet us there at nine, yah?  We’ll get settled in just in time for the first day of school.”

She smiles a little at that and hugs him, then gives her mother a guarded look and an even more guarded hug and hurries off.

He turns and looks at Tess and Dave.  “What was that about?” he demands.

They exchange an uncomfortable look then Tess says, “She’s still very angry.  She’s just acting out.”  She gives him a tight-lipped smile.  “We’ll see you tomorrow, yah?”

He nods and watches them go.

*/*/*/*/*

Rachel and Charlie arrive that evening, pulling a small moving trailer behind their car.  The trailer’s filled with the boxes Tess had packed up for Hardy, his belongings from their house in Sandbrook.  He looks at the boxes and wonders what the hell could even be in them, but at least the house wouldn’t seem quite so bare after they move in.

Supper is at Miller’s and afterwards, he walks Charlie and Rachel past the house on their way back to the Traders and suffers their good-natured teasing at how close he’s going to be to Miller and whether she was prepared to put up with him living so close.

Tess calls him early, tells him Dave wouldn’t be coming along—not that he was invited, Hardy thinks snidely--and they walk together to the house to meet the leasing agent and get the keys.  He gives her a tour while they wait for everyone else to arrive and as they stand in the back garden, looking over the common, Tess says, “I thought it would be farther away,” with a tilt of her head towards Miller’s house.

He frowns, wondering how she knows which house is which, then remembers she’d been with Daisy for a week and she likely mentioned something.

“It’s Broadchurch,” he says, “nothing’s farther away.”

She smiles a little at that and turns to him.  “Is this really where you want to be for the rest of your life?”

“I don’t know about _that_ , but the next few years, yah.  At least as long as Daisy wants to stay.”

“Is following Daisy all you have to look forward to?” she asks and he frowns again, searching her face.

“I’m still getting used to the idea that I _have_ a future, Tess,” he says and she winces a little.

“Are you sure this is the place you want to spend it?” is all she says.

He turns his eyes back towards Miller’s house and sees she’s on her way over with wee Fred in his stroller and Tom towering beside her even though he’s only thirteen.  He softens and something must show in his face because Tess turns and looks then turns back to him with a half-pained, half-jealous expression in her eyes.

“Like that, is it?” she snaps.

He looks at her, eyes wide, his mouth twisting, but he just shakes his head and opens the gate for Miller and her sons.

*/*/*/*/*

It doesn’t take long to move in, really, since he’s leased most of the furniture that was already in the house.  Daisy’s nose crinkles at the bed in her room and Hardy promises they can get a new bed for her in a month or two.  She’s not impressed with the sofa either but, like the beds, it’s good enough for now.

They unload the moving trailer then Miller drives them back to the hotel to get their suitcases and pay the final bill.  Becca gives him her cheeky smile and says she’s sorry to see them go.  He nods without speaking and as he walks out with Daisy, he hopes he won’t have to live in a hotel again for a good long while.

They’ve rearranged furniture and added the small pieces Tess had given him from the house by the time lunch rolls round.  Hardy spends some time digging through boxes then carrying them to their proper rooms before he takes a few minutes to go through a box of the clothes he’d left behind when he’d left Sandbrook the first time.  He scowls at a pair of jeans he hasn’t seen in two years and suddenly realizes the house is far too quiet for the number of people roaming round the place.

He goes downstairs to find Tess alone in the kitchen, unwrapping cups and mugs from the newspaper she’d used to pack them and putting them in the hot, soapy water that fills the sink.

He lifts a questioning eyebrow as he joins her.

“They’re hungry and have gone to find take-away for us.”

“Fish and chips,” he sighs, unbuttoning his shirt cuffs and rolling up his sleeves as he walks to the sink.

“Your favourite,” Tess says with a laugh as she puts the last mug into the sink.

“Next to chicken,” he agrees.  They share a look warm with memories of a happier time as she picks up a dish towel and stations herself ready beside him.

For the first time in years, Hardy feels like he recognizes the woman beside him, and he smiles at her.  He washes the dishes and she dries in comfortable silence until he picks one particularly garish mug out of the soapy water and stares at it with a disgusted expression.

“Oh, for God’s sake--not this bloody thing!” he growls.

“You love this mug and you know it!” Tess says but can’t keep a straight face at his disbelieving expression.

“You only bought it because I hated it and you wanted to torture me with it!”

It is an ugly thing, he thinks, wild patterns and clashing colours proudly proclaiming the name of the cheap amusement park they’d stumbled across about a year after they’d married and a couple years before Daisy.  They’d found the mug in the tacky souvenir shop she’d insisted on dragging him into and his immediate, visceral rejection of it had guaranteed she’d buy it--and then periodically try to convince him to drink out of it or use it at work or just acknowledge it, really. 

He should have known the marriage was falling apart when the damn thing stopped randomly appearing round him.

He tests the weight of it in his hand, feeling almost fond.

“Why pack this for me?” he asks.  His eyes are soft as he turns to her.

Tess grimaces and shrugs.  “I...don’t really know,” she says.  “It was...it just seemed like the right thing to do.”  She touches the lip of the mug with one finger.  “We had some good times, Alec.  Some really fun times.”

“Really?” he asks skeptically.  “I got the impression I was never any fun.”

She smirks suddenly, eyes warm and teasing. “You had your moments,” she says.

For a moment he’s suspended in time, in memory, and dear God, he _misses_ her and it hurts almost as much as when they first broke apart, when he was alone in the public firestorm after the pendant, when he was alone and angry and hurting and _so scared_ as his life crumbled round him, yet still convinced he was going to solve Sandbrook, regain his professional reputation, get healthy, and reclaim his wife and child and his _fucking life_.

He looks at Tess with dark and solemn eyes.  “What went wrong, Tess?” he asks gently.

Her smirk fades and she drops her gaze to where her finger is lightly stroking the lip of the mug in Hardy’s hands.  She quietly sighs and says, “You stopped seeing me.”

“You should have said something.”

“I did, Alec.  You stopped hearing me, too.”

He’s suddenly red-hot with fury, but he stops and forces the anger away.  He’s been angry for too long and he wants...he searches Tess’ face.  So familiar, but he knows she’s a stranger to him now.  Maybe she’d always been a stranger to him.

She’s staring at him, her eyes sad and thoughtful.  “Maybe I should have spoken louder, yah?”

He presses his lips together into a tight line, then says, “Maybe, yah.  And maybe I should have realized I wasn’t hearing you anymore.”  His eyes cling to hers as they stand in silence, then he says, “I’m sorry, Tess.  You made me happy for a long time.  I just wish I could say I did the same for you.  For what it’s worth, I really did love you.”

Something flashes across her face.  “ _Did._ ”

“You’re Daisy’s mother.  A part of me will always love you.”

Her mouth twists and her eyes are suddenly suspiciously wet.  “But you’re not in love with me anymore.”

“No.”  He smiles slightly.  “That should make you happy.”  His gaze sharpens.  “ _Are_ you happy, Tess?”

She stares at him for a long moment then says, “You’re a good man, Alec.  You have a kind heart, even if you don’t like to show it.”

“That isn’t an answer.”

She smiles, leans in and presses a gentle, chaste kiss against his lips.  He almost flinches at the familiar yet strange feel of her mouth against his, and there’s a bittersweet feel to it as he just as gently and chastely responds because he knows he’s kissing her--and everything they’d once shared--good-bye.

The others return a few minutes later, bursting in to the house on a wave of noise surrounded by the smell of fish and oil.  Hardy doesn’t think about his conversation with Tess again until long after everyone has gone and Daisy’s setting her bedroom to rights, when he goes into the kitchen and carefully sets the mug at the very back of the cupboard.

*/*/*/*/*

They clear out the office and mail room over the next week, and on Saturday Miller arrives at his back door with a brisk, “Right, then, time to sort through that mail, yah?” as she brushes past him.

Daisy finds them that night comfortably bickering over a particular file sent in by someone and whether it’s something they could pursue or whether it’s something they pass on to the police in charge of the investigation.

It’s late when Ellie finally leaves, and Hardy walks out with her to the back garden.  They’re still bickering but there’s a pause as she puts her hand on the gate.  She looks up at him and there’s something in his face--what she can see of it in the half-light and shadows--that makes her giddy and warm and she blushes, thinking she feels more like a girl in the midst of her first crush rather than an almost-forty-year-old woman.

She likes the feeling and she’s in no hurry to do anything other than enjoy it.  It makes her feel... _new._ She doesn’t know why it’s Hardy, of all bloody people, who makes her feel this way, but she’s getting used to it…and maybe it’s not so bad that it’s him after all.

She gives him a quick smile.

“Good-night, Hardy.”

“Good-night, Miller,” he says and she slips through the gate and is gone.

*/*/*/*/*

By the time September slides into October, life has slipped into a routine. 

Hardy calls Dottie every Monday, sometimes just to give her an opportunity to be angry.  Breakfast is at Miller’s on Wednesday mornings, although not one of them could explain why.  Sunday brunch rotates between Miller’s, the Latimers’ and Hardy’s houses.  Chloe usually spends the night at Hardy’s on Thursdays, while Daisy stays at the Latimers’ on Friday and doesn’t return until Saturday afternoon.  More often than not, Miller arrives at Hardy’s, wee Fred beside her, late on Saturday morning, after Tom has gone to his football practice and he usually spends the afternoon with those few boys who are still friendly with him.  Hardy and Miller take Fred for long walks, or to the beach or the playground, or they set him up with toys in the living room when they’re working.

Hardy and Miller often end up at each other’s houses between these days, depending on what they’re working on.  When she’s at his house, Hardy always walks her out through the back garden where they say good-night and he gently latches the gate behind her.

Daisy’s smiling more, telling him more, and she says she’s happy.  She’s not speaking much to her mother and still won’t tell him what happened the week she spent with Tess and Dave so he’s not surprised when Tess calls and asks him to persuade Daisy to spend the last week of October, autumn break, with her at a resort town.

He tries, but Daisy shuts him down and shuts him out the minute he brings up the topic.  He mentions something at breakfast one Wednesday about a fortnight before the break.  Daisy blanks on him, and Miller nags at him until he tells her the problem over tea that afternoon.

“Is it really so important to you that she spends this break with her mother?” Miller asks, face scrunched up in confusion.

“She’s sixteen,” he growls, “she needs her mother.  They haven’t seen each other since the term started and they don’t talk much on the phone.”

“Did Daisy say why she doesn’t want to spend a week at a posh resort with her mum?”

“She said she’s already made plans with Chloe but won’t tell me what they are.  She finally told me she doesn’t want Dave and his kids along, but doesn’t want to be alone with Tess either.  I sure as hell won’t be going with them!”

Ellie frowns.  “What about sending Chloe along?”

He shakes his head.  “Thought of that, but Tess wants to spend time alone with Daisy.  I don’t want Chloe left to her own devices for most of the week.”

Miller hums thoughtfully but drops the subject until Sunday brunch, which is at the Latimers that week.  Miller broaches the subject, finds out where Tess wants to take Daisy and in about thirty minutes has turned the mother-daughter solo holiday into a Girls Only Trip, with Miller, Beth, Chloe and wee Lizzie along for the ride—and to run interference if needed.

Everything’s arranged before they leave that afternoon, including calling Tess to get her agreement, making arrangements to meet at the resort, and booking the rooms.

“Tell me, Miller,” he says as they walk across the common, Tom and Daisy roaming ahead while he and Miller amble along with wee Fred, “did you come up with the idea to help Daisy or because you want a holiday?”

“I guess you’ll never know,” she teases with a slightly wicked smile as she picks up Fred and veers off to follow Tom home.

He stands motionless, staring after her, and wonders if she actually just flirted with him...or not.

He ducks his head and changes direction towards his house, and wishes he was better at reading women when they’re not suspects in an investigation.

*/*/*/*/*

The next two weeks fly by and before he knows it, it’s autumn break.  Everyone converges at the Latimers and there’s semi-controlled chaos as they pack the car, with one or the other or several people rushing round for last minute items and things they’ve forgotten.  Between the constant darting from one place to the other, the leave-taking devolves into what seems to be a knot of people trying to say good-bye and safe travels.  Hardy ends up being hugged by Chloe, then hugged and kissed by Daisy, and is then passed on to Miller, which is when where he drops a swift kiss on to her mouth without thinking.

“Drive safe,” he says brusquely when he lifts his head and only then realizes what he’s done.  He freezes and stares at her with wide, horrified eyes.

Oh, shit, he thinks.  Shit, shit, shit, shit, _shit!_

Her eyes are almost as wide and shocked as his but there’s time for anything more than an awkward smile as she hurries into the car. 

He can barely bring himself to lift a hand in farewell as they drive away and he decides, in the suddenly peaceful aftermath of their departure, that this would be the perfect moment for a hole to open up beneath his feet and swallow him up.  Just erase him from the world so he doesn’t have to deal with this embarrassing shit when he sees Miller again.

*/*/*/*/*

“Ellie,” Daisy says with too-bright curiosity, chin resting on the seat behind Beth, “why did Dad kiss you good-bye?”

Ellie blushes a fiery red and gives Daisy an awkward smile.  “I’m sure it was an accident,” she says then winces at how utterly, _utterly_ stupid that sounds.  Stubbing a toe is an accident, she thinks scathingly, kissing seldom is.

She realizes the only person not staring avidly at her is Lizzie, and she says, “I’m sure he just...just...”

“Just what?” Chloe asks and Ellie gives a helpless shrug and gives Beth a pleading look.

“Awright, girls,” Beth says briskly, “it was just a good-bye kiss.  Friends do it all the time, so you can stop teasing.”

The girls reluctantly sit back in their seats, pouting a little, and they don’t appear to hear Beth mutter, “But we are having a _serious_ talk tonight, Ell.”

*/*/*/*/*

Beth captures her for that talk after Chloe and Daisy have been borne away by Tess to see the shops and the town.

“So--you and Hardy?” Beth says as she puts Lizzie down for the night.  “Is Lucy disappointed?”

Ellie flushes a deep red and says, “No—and no.  She hasn’t even tried to chat him up.”

“She’s always been more talk than action,” Beth says, “or she knew better than to poach on your territory.”

“He’s not my territory, Beth.”

“I’ve seen the way he looks at you, Ell.  It wouldn’t take much to change that, I think.”

She stares.  “Don’t be daft,” she mutters with a nervous smile.

“He kissed you good-bye.”

“Shocked him as much as it did everyone else, I suspect.”

Beth glares.  “ _Tell me,_ ” she says firmly.

Ellie sighs and tells her everything:  the awkward end to her dinner date with Will, her dawning attraction to Hardy, the realization he’s actually rather attractive, even her occasionally checking out his arse at work.

“So what’s holding you back?” Beth asks, amused.

“Well...a signal he feels something similar.”

Lizzie begins to fuss and Beth goes to her and says, “Alec Hardy kissed you good-bye today.  I think that’s what you detectives might call a clue.”

*/*/*/*/*

The days pass more comfortably than expected, and Tess is friendly enough although there’s an assessing air about her when she looks at Ellie.  Daisy’s still guarded around her mother and Ellie wonders what exactly happened during their last holiday.

She broaches the subject with Tess on a rare occasion when they’re alone, the others having gone to the shops.

“Are things easier with Daisy?” she asks, feeling awkward, but she feels an unexpected stab of empathy for Tess.  She knows what it’s like to be at odds with the child you love more than life.  “Is this holiday going better than the last one?”

“Dave and I were fighting that week,” Tess says easily.  “Daisy isn’t used to that, that’s all.”  She lifts an eyebrow.  “I understand Alec kissed you, right in front of everybody.”

Ellie flushes and Tess laughs.

“Well, I’m not surprised,” she says with a shrug.  “I could tell there was something between you the first time we met.”

“There’s nothing--”

“Maybe not yet!”  Tess chuckles then becomes very serious as she leans forward.  “I know Alec.  But I don’t know you.” She shakes her head, giving Ellie a considering look then appears to come to a decision.  “Do you want to know the first time I shagged him?” she asks, leaning conspiratorially closer.

Ellie’s eyes pop wide.  “What?  No!”

Tess ignores her, smiling smugly.  “We’d just closed a difficult case--the worst we’d ever worked at the time.  It was almost as tough as Lisa’s and Pippa’s murders, and once we found him, it took three solid days of interrogation before the killer finally broke.  Oh, God, Alec was magnificent, Ellie, you should have seen him!  All fire and righteous indignation and pathos and empathy and utterly relentless, everything you want in a copper investigating a homicide and interrogating a suspect.

“He’d been watching me for months, you know.  Longing looks and puppy eyes and awkward silences and even more awkward attempts to get me out for drinks or dinner or just to have a shag, I suppose, since Alec’s not much for dating in the classic sense.  It was both adorable and embarrassing as hell because—well, to be honest, I wasn’t that interested.  I mean, he was even skinnier than he is now and he didn’t have a beard then.  He was cute, don’t get me wrong--all gangly legs and toothpick arms, even more prone to impatience and sudden bursts of anger, but not... _exciting_ , know what I mean?  There were many more traditionally handsome men on the force then and we were all young and mostly single so I really didn’t have much time for my socially awkward partner, although his obvious crush was good for the ego and rather sweet.  But then we caught that case...”  She trails off, her eyes soft with memories as she slowly shakes her head.

“When everything was all said and done, and we had the confession and the suspect was in booking, Alec went back into that interrogation room for some reason, and I followed.  Shagged him right there.”

Ellie gasps and Tess chuckles a warm, husky laugh.

“Got a bit told off when they found out about it, but we were the heroes of the moment.”  There’s a bitterness in the set of her mouth as she shakes her head. “That’s forgotten soon enough,” she says then sighs.  “Should have known better.  About Alec, I mean.  I just wanted a one-time shag but he loves with everything he has; he just doesn’t know how to show it.”

“Why are you telling me all this?”

“Because he looks at you almost the same way he used to look at me.  If you’re not interested, then you need to tell him.  Just don’t make the same mistake I did, and give in at a weak moment.  That will just end badly for everyone.”

*/*/*/*/*

Hardy spends his days working, clearing the cases that end up on his desk, formally asking Elaine to request access to some of the complete case files people have sent him, and going through the Livingstone case again.  This time he frowns as he reads the corroborating witness statements and plots the statements against the locations and timelines told to them by the AlphaBetties.

There are no solid corroborating statements after Chumley’s.  All the witness statements use words like ‘might’ or ‘think’ or ‘maybe’ when asked if anyone had seen the group.  Not surprising, he supposes as he flips through the pages again, since they were canvassing in the wrong part of town, and there’s nothing to indicate the investigators ever realized it.

He scowls.  Surely at some point in the two years before the confession one of the AlphaBetties would have let it slip they’d been in a pub.  It had taken only a couple of interviews for them to tell him and Miller about it.

He picks up the phone and calls the Detective Inspector who had been in charge of the case.

From there he calls the lead Detective Sergeant and then several of the Detective Constables and uniforms who canvassed for witnesses or assisted in the search.

By the time he’s called them all, his blood is singing.  He doesn’t really know what he’s found, but he knows-- _knows_ \--he’s on to something, and he can’t wait for Miller to get back.

He picks up the phone and makes five more calls, all identical, then sits back with a slightly cruel but satisfied smile and prepares himself to wait to see what happens next.

*/*/*/*/*

As she drives them home on Saturday, Ellie decides the trip was more successful than she had dared to hope, even if it had its strange moments.  She grimaces as she remembers her conversation with Tess.

The car is quiet, the girls sleepy in the back seat with Lizzie cooing in her car seat beside them.  Ellie glances in the mirror then exchanges a bittersweet smile with Beth.  Their worlds will never be the way they used to be, but there are pleasures and happiness to be found in this new normal, and maybe room to take chances again.

The closer they get to Broadchurch the more she thinks about Hardy’s kiss good-bye.  It had lasted a touch too long to be strictly friendly but it was short enough that she knew he’d done it without thinking.  The look of pure horror he’d had when he realized what he’d done bore that out.

She grins at the memory, her stomach fluttering, heat climbing in her cheeks.  As surprising and short-lived as it was, it had rocked her more than the pleasant and extremely skilful kisses she’d shared with Will Seymour.  Or maybe it just seems that way _because_ it was so unexpected. 

She shifts a little in her seat then glances at Beth, who’s watching her with an amused half-smile.  She makes a face and Beth laughs, and it reminds Ellie that Beth’s still only just past thirty and far too young to look as worn down by life as she far too often does.

When they finally arrive in Broadchurch, Ellie first drops Chloe, Beth and Lizzie at their house, then drives Daisy home, and accepts when Daisy invites her to stay for a bite to eat.

She’s filled with nervous anticipation as she follows Daisy to the door.

*/*/*/*/*

Hardy feels out-of-sorts all day on Saturday, probably because Miller didn’t show up at his back door with wee Fred.  He’s restless so he spends the day at the station, cleaning up any paperwork still to be done on the small cases that landed on his desk during the week and wonders when or if his phone calls from Tuesday will bear any fruit.  He sorts through the mail that arrived for him and is almost regretful that it’s slowed to a trickle since it means Isabella is no longer making special trips to Broadchurch and he can’t afford to lose anyone who almost enjoys his company.  She has offered to help respond to it all once he’s finally ready to do that.

When he can’t dawdle at the station any longer, he picks up the small box that contains the small amount of mail that came in that week and goes home.  Daisy and Miller and the others will be back sometime tonight and he’s looking forward to seeing his daughter.

Having to see Miller on Monday, though, is a different matter.  With luck, she will have forgotten all about his kiss good-bye, but if she hasn’t, well, he’ll apologize and hope it doesn’t make things awkward for long.  Besides, people do that all the time anyway, don’t they?  Kiss good-bye?  He can still salvage some small sliver of pride...he just needs to make sure he’s never so bloody stupid again.

He eats supper, washes dishes, then putters aimlessly round the house before he shakes his head and decides to go through the small pile of mail he brought home.  There’s not much:  a couple dozen postcards, another dozen white envelopes, and a package, wrapped in brown paper and sealed tight with packing tape.

He takes his time, going through the postcards and letters before finally opening the package.  He lifts the top from the flimsy cardboard box he’s revealed and finds a book.  A journal, actually, with a date that’s twelve years in the past embossed on the cover.

He looks at the paper it had been wrapped in but there’s only the station address typed on a label, and a postmark from a town in the north.  He grabs a pen off the coffee table and uses it to lift the cover of the journal.  His blood starts to sing when he sees the name ‘Frankie’ written in looping curls on the first page.

His head shoots up as the door opens and Daisy walks in followed by Miller.

“Miller-- _outstanding_!  Come look at this!” he says as he gets to his feet.  He shoves the pen into her hand, ignoring her flabbergasted face as he scoops Daisy up in a tight hug.  “Look at the first page, Miller!”  He drops a kiss on Daisy’s cheek and says, “Missed you, darling,” as he sets her away from him.  “Did you enjoy yourself?  We have to make a run to the police station--will you be okay on your own for a bit?”

She looks a bit dazed as he spins round and claps Miller on the back, staggering her and making her drop the pen.

“Somebody somewhere is starting to panic, Miller!” he says and smiles a feral grin, eyes wide and shining.

Ellie deflates, her delicious anticipation during the drive home dissipating in an instant, leaving her a little bewildered and disappointed, but his excitement over the journal makes her curious.  She retrieves the pen, lifts up the cover of the journal and gasps, spinning to stare at him.

“Come on,” he says, practically bouncing on his feet, “let’s pack it up and get it to SOCO!”

Daisy’s face tightens with disgusted anger.  “Choosing another dead girl over me?” she asks bitterly.

He stops, eyes going wide.  “Of course not, darling,” he says, “except this is evidence.  The last time evidence was left laying around it didn’t end well for anybody.  Come with us—we won’t be long.”

“What if _I_ don’t want to go?” Ellie snaps.

“Oh, come on, Miller!” he wheedles and glances at his watch.  “It’s too late to pick up wee Fred, he’ll be sleeping, and Tom’s not back till tomorrow.  We just need to get it to SOCO, have them make us a couple quick copies and we’ll be back before you know it!”

“Hardy--”

“Dad--”

But he’s already grabbed up the box, the journal and the wrapping paper and is herding both of them towards the door.

“Come on, come on, don’t dawdle,” he says, and he has them outside and by the car before Ellie and Daisy can manage to do more than make inarticulate protesting noises, and by then it’s too late to do more than scowl and grumble--and get in the car.

*/*/*/*/*

Hardy--to Ellie’s surprise and grudging admiration--cajoles SOCO into making them two copies immediately after they’ve taken the journal into evidence...even though it’s evidence related to a closed case that wasn’t even in their jurisdiction.  She has to admit, the man can be persuasive when he needs to be.

They leave with two manila envelopes then stop at the chippies for take-away and go back to Hardy’s where they set the envelopes aside while Daisy and Ellie eat fish and chips and Hardy scavenges some salad from the fridge.

He shrugs at Ellie’s raised eyebrows and mutters, “Still need to be careful,” before he turns his attention to Daisy.  “Tell me about your holiday.  What did you do?”

Daisy starts slowly but gains momentum and by the time they’re finishing the last of their late night meal, she’s in full flight and Hardy’s watching her with a smile and a soft light in his eyes that Ellie seldom sees.  Her heart clenches as she watches him and her disappointment at his initial greeting eases.  To be fair, how was he supposed to know she was hoping for a different kind of greeting?  It’s not like she’s ever showed him anything but friendly interest, and she’s still not positive she wants to risk moving beyond that.

Daisy’s yawning as they clean up from their meal and she goes upstairs once they’re done, hugging Ellie and giving her father a kiss on the cheek before leaving them alone.

Ellie turns to Hardy, who’s suddenly looking uncomfortable, and she gives him a questioning look.

“It’s late,” he says brusquely as he leads the way back to the living room.  He picks up one of the manila envelopes and holds it out to her.  “I’m sure you’re anxious to get to sleep, too.  We can compare notes on Monday.”

She takes the envelope and says, “You’re going to read it tonight, aren’t you?”

He nods.

She heaves a mock-irritated sigh and settles on the sofa.  “Well, come on, then.”

He hesitates then relaxes and picks up his own envelope and sits beside her.

*/*/*/*/*

The journal’s contents are written in the same swooping, curling letters as the name on the first page.  Francesca didn’t write every day, didn’t write about what she did or where she went or what she wore or what she ate.  What she _did_ write about, however, in detail and at length, was her hatred for her mother, her thoughts about her friends, and her plans for all of them.

Ellie and Hardy finish reading about the same time, and both silently straighten the pages, put them neatly in the envelopes then lean back, heads resting against the sofa cushions.

“Well,” Ellie says slowly, “Dottie wasn’t exaggerating.  Francesca really was...troubled.”

“She wanted to murder her mother with help from her friends,” Hardy says flatly.  “I’d say she was a wee bit more than ‘troubled’.”

She gives him a sad look.  “What now?”

He sighs.  “Now we go back to Archie.”

They sit in silence for another moment, but Ellie knows it really is time for her to go.  As usual, he walks her outside to the back gate. 

She has her hand on the latch when he clears his throat and says, “Miller--”

There’s something in his voice that makes her stomach flutter and she turns to look at him, tall and lanky, half in moonlight and half in shadows, and the flutter gets stronger.

He looks at her, her dark eyes luminous in the moonlight, hair a riot of curls now she’s taken out the pins she uses to hold it back.  She looks... _beautiful_ and he wistfully wishes he was less fucked up, wishes he knew what to do so she’d smile at him the way she’d smiled at Will, wishes he knew what to say that would salvage their relationship from whatever damage he’d done when he’d kissed her good-bye a week ago.

Ellie realizes he’s trying to figure out a way to apologize for the kiss--he’s only ever this hesitant when it’s something personal--and she realizes with absolute certainty that she doesn’t want to hear it.  She doesn’t want him to take it back or say it was a mistake or an accident or whatever other lame excuse he’s got churning round in that mussed up head of his. 

He moves to speak and she forestalls him by stepping closer, going up on tiptoe and pressing a kiss against his half-opened mouth that lasts a little too long to be strictly friendly. 

She takes a half-step away so she can see his face.

She bites back a laugh at his wide-eyed, slack-jawed stare, and says, “You kissed me good-bye.  People do that, even you, I suppose.  People also kiss good-night.”

“...right...”

He sounds so confused, she does laugh and he rolls his eyes.  But he looks so uncertain in the moonlight and shadow, hair falling over his forehead, that she finally gives in to temptation and brushes it away from his eyes.  His eyes close at the touch of her fingers then open again, and she doesn’t need to see them in the daylight to recognize the yearning that’s in them.

She smiles a little, then tilts her head in invitation and this time they meet in the middle.

His lips are warm and soft and tentative as they move against hers and she sighs against his mouth as he lightly rests his hands at her waist.

There’s something innocent in the moment, new and precious, and she feels a tremble in his hands that makes her melt.  She has the urge to throw caution to the wind, to change the nature of the moment to something hot and fiery and much less innocent, but she holds back as does he.

They haven’t gone too far.  They can still step back, agree this was a mistake and pretend it’s not too late to go back to the way things have always been.  His hands flex a little against her and her heart speeds up, and she realizes it’s been too late for a long time now.

The kiss ends, and they take a couple steps away from each other.  They’re silent, eyes clinging, as she puts her slightly shaking hand on the gate and unlatches it.  The sound seems to shatter the silence and brings them back down to earth.

He clears his throat.  “Good-night, Miller,” he says, his Scottish burr low and husky and she shivers as it whispers down her spine.

She opens the gate and smiles.  “Good-night, Hardy,” she says and slips away.

*/*/*/*/*


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I debated over posting this as a stand-alone chapter, but (spoiler alert!) the next chapter is going to be very case-heavy and still needs lots of work. So, in honor of the holiday season, I’m posting this part as its own chapter. Hope you enjoy! :)

*/*/*/*/*

Ellie doesn't panic until the morning, when somehow the cold light of day makes what seemed so right in the moonlight the worst possible decision she could have made.

Thankfully they'd decided there would be no brunch that day--a quiet day at home with their respective families was what was wanted after a week away--so she had plenty of time to rethink everything. 

She presents a calm enough front, going to Lucy's to pick up Fred then picking Tom up from the school when he gets back from his football camp.  He seems to have grown another inch in the week she's been away and she hugs him a little tighter because of it and wonders what he'll think about her and Hardy, especially since it not even six months since Joe had been acquitted and banished.

*/*/*/*/*

Hardy doesn't start to panic until the afternoon. 

He doesn't understand why Miller's softened towards him and he wants to just accept it and run with it.  But he did that once before, with Tess, and yes, they ended up married and he thought they'd been happy, but it hadn't ended well and it's not like he's a different man than he'd been then.  Older, yes, even more cynical, even grumpier, and he's learned his limits when it comes to social graces, but he still likes his silence and getting him to talk somedays is just not worth the effort, so it's not like he's become any easier to live with.

And she's _Miller_!  She still hasn't really forgiven him for stealing her job and he arrested her husband for murder, for God's sake!  Plus it's what?  Only six months since Joe was acquitted?  Six months since they were accused of having the affair they've just taken a step towards?  And what about Tom?  How's he going to feel about all this...assuming it ever grows to something more than just a kiss in the dark?

He feels light-headed in a way he hasn't since he had the pacemaker put in, and wonders if he's managed to break the thing.  He groans, and rubs his hands over his face.

This is worse than when he first fell in love with Tess, he thinks with a grimace.  At least he hadn't arrested _her_ husband!

How the hell are they going to be able to work together tomorrow?

*/*/*/*/*

It's almost seven when Ellie snaps.

This is ridiculous, all this anxiety and worry over that bloody, stupid man, she rants silently, even as she stomps up the stairs to Tom's room.

"I have to run across to Hardy's for a minute," she says.  "You okay to watch Fred?  I won't be long--fifteen, maybe thirty minutes."

Tom looks wide-eyed at her and nods.  "Anything wrong?"

She gives him a quick smile.  "No, no--just a problem that needs solving before morning, that's all.  I'll take my phone, so ring if you need me."

"Awright, Mum."

She pulls on her coat and storms off across the common.

*/*/*/*/*

Hardy knows who's at his back door before he even opens it.

"Miller," he says, cautious and hopeful and nervous all at once.

She gives him a quick smile then says, "You have a minute?"

"Uh, yeah," he says and steps aside to let her in. 

She hesitates.

"Daisy home?" she asks, her voice pitched low.

"In her room."

"Can we talk out here, then?"

He hesitates, keeping his face carefully expressionless, then nods.  He takes a step towards her and Miller says, "It's chilly.  Put a coat on."

He rolls his eyes, but does as she suggested and joins her in the garden.  She leads him as far away from the house as she can, on the edge of the dim circle of light thrown out by his porch light.

She starts speaking as she's turning to face him.  "Listen, Hardy, about last night..."

Her voice trails off as she gets a good look at his ruefully resigned face.

Hardy's surprised by his disappointment.  Considering how he'd been second-guessing everything for most of the day, he would have thought he would only be relieved.

He realizes she's staring.  He must be taking too long to say something.

"It's all right," he says quickly.  "We don't have to speak of it again."  He can't quite bring himself to say it didn’t matter, but he can offer her this, at least.

He's startled when she suddenly glares at him. 

"Is that what you want?" she snaps.

"Do you?" he snaps back.

Now she looks confused and vulnerable and Hardy has to fight the urge to reach out and pull her into a hug, to tell her everything is going to be all right, they'll figure things out.  He's so busy restraining himself that he thinks he's misheard what she's just breathed out.

"Sorry?" he asks.

She clears her throat and says more strongly, "I said, no, that isn't what I want."

He lifts his head, blinking.  "Oh.  I just assumed that's what you came to tell me."

"You assumed right, but I can't."  She drops her gaze to her hands, which are toying with the edges of her anorak.

Hardy stares at her for a long moment while she looks everywhere but at him.

Finally, he growls, "What are you wittering on about now, Miller?"

It seems to be the right thing to say because she draws herself up with a haughty glare, then she makes a rueful face and deflates.

"I came storming over here to tell you it was all a mistake, it never happened, let's just be friends, it'll never happen again."

He nods, every word like a slap, but at least an expected one.

"But..." she takes a deep breath, "I don't want that.  I don't know what's going on, but...I like it, and I don't want to run away from it."

"I'm sensing another 'but'."

She nods, feeling miserable.  "It's only been six months since Joe was acquitted," she says and blinks back those bloody tears she's so tired of shedding.  "Just over a year since he was arrested and everything fell to shite.  We were so happy and I loved him so much!  Before you arrested him, before he confessed, I thought he was the perfect man.  He did everything right, Hardy!  We seldom fought, we had a good sex life even if it dropped off a bit over the years, and he was everything the perfect boyfriend and lover and husband is supposed to be!  Supportive and loving and--and-- _perfect_!  And it was all a lie and I didn't even know it!" 

She starts to pace, her hands clutching at her head, as if it's about to fly off at any moment as she continues.

"Going out with Will Seymour would have been _easy_ \--a couple of nice meals, maybe a shag or two, but it wasn't going to _mean_ anything!  But _you_!  Starting something with you is--it's--it's--it's _dangerous_!  It puts our professional relationship at risk, and that's important, and it puts our friendship at risk, and that's even more important, and--and--and how do I trust what I'm feeling or thinking or wanting about any of this when I was just so _stupid_ before?"

She stops pacing and glares up at him.

"And I suppose you haven't been worried at all, have you?  You've probably just spent the day not even thinking about me or--or--worrying at this!"

"Oi, don't start with me!  I've been pacing the house all day, going through all the different ways this can go to shite, and thinking we've both run mad!"

She blinks, taken aback, then she smiles.  "Yah?"

"Yah."  He cocks his head to one side, a puzzled frown creasing his forehead.  "Is _this_ the right time for a hug?" he asks.

She gobbles, tripping over deciding whether to call him a wanker, a knob and an insensitive idiot all at the same time or to just say yes and throw herself in to his arms and sob on his shoulder, but before she can get any words out, he simply pulls her to him and wraps his arms round her, one hand warmly cradling the back of her head as he presses her cheek against his chest.

Then he just holds her.

She feels engulfed but not overwhelmed, and his arms are comforting and firm and warm.  She hears the beat of his heart, steady and strong against her ear.  Her arms creep round him as she closes her eyes with a sigh and relaxes.

He rests his chin against the top of her head.

"Nothing's going to happen that you don't want to happen, Miller," he says, and pressed this close against him, his Scottish brogue feels like a purr.  "First off, I'm not Joe."

She snorts a little at that.  "Joe wasn't even Joe!"

He makes an amused sound then says, "I mean, you'll never have to worry that I'll be too perfect for you to believe."

She nuzzles a little closer.  "I don't know--you're edging dangerously close to it right now."

He leans away enough so he can give her a disbelieving stare.  "Have you _met_ me?"

She laughs and he smiles a little then they return to where they were, her cheek once more pressed against his chest.

"Second, there's no hurry.  We have plenty of time."  Those simple words and the steady beat of his heart makes her catch her breath, suddenly remembering that not that long ago, time was at a premium for him.  Her arms tighten round him at the thought.

"So, what are you suggesting?" she says.

"Oh, God, I have no idea!  I'm utterly rubbish at this sort of thing," he groans and she laughs again.  He sighs.  "We just keep doing what we've been doing, I suppose, except...maybe...a little extra every now and then."

"A little extra.  Like...kisses and hugs?"

He gives a little shrug.  "Would be nice, wouldn't it?"  He's silent and his arms tighten round her a little before he adds, "Only when you're ready... _if_ you're ever ready."

She huffs a small laugh.  "There you go again, edging awfully close to perfect, Hardy."

"Oi, not bloody likely," he growls and loosens his grip round her.  She only moves far enough so she can lift her head and look at him. 

"Fine," she says, "you're not perfect.  Not that I expected it--I have met you, after all."

He shakes his head with a sigh.  "Feel better?"

"Almost."

He frowns, one eyebrow lifting in question.

"I agree with your plan, and to make it official, I think we should seal it with a bit of that 'little extra' you mentioned."

His eyebrow rises higher.  "What--another hug?"

She shakes her head, her eyes never leaving his.

His lips curve into a smile.  "Ah," he breathes and bends towards her.

This kiss is still sweet, still new, still somehow innocent, and they're still holding back even as they hold each other closer.  It's also deep and slow, almost lazily exploring, until they finally ease apart to blink at each other in the half-light-half-dark of the garden.

"I have to go," Ellie almost whispers.  "Tom's watching Fred."

Hardy nods and they both shiver in the evening air as he walks her to the gate.

She opens it then pauses and says with a smile, "I like the 'extra'.  The 'extra' is a very good idea."

She's rewarded with one of his bright, shining grins.

"Good-night, Miller."

"Good-night, Hardy."

*/*/*/*/*


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings:  non-graphic discussions of violence, abuse and the act of murder.  Drug and alcohol references.
> 
> A/N:  Well, we’re getting close to the end of this story.  After this chapter, if my plotting holds firm, there are three more parts and an epilogue to go.  How many chapters that will translate to is up in the air (‘cause there’s a LOT to get through)(erm…don’t think that needed a spoiler alert…LOL)

 

*/*/*/*/*

Monday morning is only a little awkward.  They’re both a little bashful in the harsh light of the police station when Miller pauses on the threshold of their office when she sees Hardy already in his chair behind his desk.  She stands hesitantly at the door as they stare at each other...until they roll their eyes at their own discomfort and share a grin.

“Ready to work?”  Hardy asks.

She scrunches up her face.  “Not quite,” she admits as she walks in and drops her purse on her desk.  She walks round to him and drops a quick kiss on his worried mouth.  “Good morning,” she says.

“Morning,” he croaks, eyes wide.

She straightens, smiles and gives him a short nod.  “ _Now_ I’m ready to work.”

She returns to her desk where she drops her purse in a drawer then hangs up her coat.  “So,” she says, settling into her chair, “tell me what you did that upset somebody enough to send you the journal.”

“Right,” he says and leans over his desk.  “While you were away, I scoured the files again, looking for anything that might shed light on how such a large group--drunk and by all accounts loud--managed to get from one part of town to the other without anyone seeing them.  There’s nothing--no witnesses, no taxi drivers, nothing.”

“That can’t be unusual, though, can it?  Maybe they had a couple of cars.”

“Which would suggest that one or two of the AlphaBetties might have stayed sober enough to drive.  That’s not the case, by their own admissions.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time stupidly young people drove when they shouldn’t have.”

 “True enough,” he says.  “I called the DI in charge of the case, asked if they canvassed the taxi companies, and he said they had, but not one had any record of picking up seven people.  I talked to the DSs and DCs who are still on the force in Sandbrook and confirmed they’d canvassed the taxi drivers themselves as well as their companies.  Nothing.”

“They were young; maybe they walked?”

He shakes his head.  “It takes a good hour to walk from where they were to the old pubs area, even if they were sober.  Not to mention the streets are winding and you have to pass through a commercial district to get there. People saw them leave Chumley’s.  People saw them within two blocks of Chumley’s, on the same street.  Nobody saw them after that.  _Nobody_.”

Ellie’s face scrunches into a frown as she thinks furiously.  “So...you think...what?”  Her face clears.  “They never went to the pubs at all.”

He gives her a proud nod.  “I think they went some place that was only theirs, some place private, and that’s where Francesca was killed.  Maybe a flat, maybe some secluded place outside of town--hell, maybe beneath a bridge somewhere!  But wherever it was, it must have been close to Chumley’s, a place they could get to without anyone’s help.”

Ellie considers it and nods.  “That doesn’t explain how you got the journal.”

“I called each of the AlphaBetties.  Asked each of them if they had a car at the time.  They each said no.  I then asked if they had called any friends to come and pick them up from Chumley’s.  No again.  I then told them there were only two options:  either there were more people with them that night, people with cars, or they never continued on from Chumley’s and instead went somewhere private within walking distance from that bar.”

“What did _they_ say?”

He spreads his hands and shrugs.

“What-- _nothing_?” she sputters.

“Well, they all more or less denied everything, and were, for the most part quite angry.  Except Cora.  She just hung up.”

“So, what?  They’re all in it together?”

He leans back in his chair and smiles.  “Interesting how the journal shows up only a few days later, aye?”

“Oh, aye,” she drawls and he rolls his eyes.  “It doesn’t tell us much more than Francesca wanted to kill her mother and wanted to use her friends to help her do it.  Why would she--or they--whoever--send it on to you?  What was the _point_?”

He stares thoughtfully into the distance and hitches his shoulders up in a small shrug.  “Maybe to prove she deserved to die?”

*/*/*/*/*

They make arrangements that afternoon to get in to see Archie Reynolds on Wednesday morning, and it seems the most natural thing in the world for Ellie to pick up the boys and have dinner at Hardy’s so they can make arrangements to leave the next afternoon for Sandbrook.  Daisy agrees to spend the next two nights at Ellie’s, with Lucy and possibly Ollie helping out.

Ellie’s heart aches for Fred, though, since she’d only just got back from a week away.  She cuddles him more than usual that night and in the morning, and promises that once she’s home again, she won’t be going away again for a long time.

She greets Hardy with a quick good morning kiss as they pass each other in their office, and they’re on the road to Sandbrook by early afternoon.

They stop for a quick meal on the way, and it’s late by the time they get to their hotel.  They’re both yawning as they walk to their rooms and she kisses Hardy good-night outside his door before continuing down the hall to hers.  She glances back to find him watching after her and she smiles as she goes inside.

*/*/*/*/*

They’re at the prison first thing the next morning, and Archie only looks bored as he shuffles in, chains clanking, and settles on to his chair.

“Back again?” he says in way of greeting.

“We think we’re making progress,” Hardy says as he leans forward, his clasped hands resting on the table as he watches the man in front of him.  “We’ve received some new information and have some questions.”

Archie shrugs.  “Ask away.”

“Did any of you own or have access to a car that night?”

Archie chuckles.  “No.  Frankie’s mum was the only one who had any money, and she was too tight-fisted to spring for a car for her daughter.”

“How about taxis?  How often did you take them when you all went out?”

“Not often.  We didn’t have a lot of ready cash, and what we did have, we wanted to spend on drinks and drugs.  Besides, there were seven of us--too many for one taxi, so using them was pretty expensive.  We walked, mostly.”  He frowns.  “Why are you asking me about _that_?”

Hardy glances at Miller and she opens the folder in front of her and pulls out a photocopied page from the journal.

“Do you recognize the writing?” she asks, sliding it across the table to him.

He picks it up with a scowl.  They watch the dawning horror on his face as he realizes what he’s reading. 

“Where--?” he sputters, his wide-eyed gaze flying back to them.

“Do you recognize the writing?” Ellie asks again.

“Course I do!  It’s Frankie’s!  But it--this—says…”  He stops and stares, breathing rapidly through his gaping mouth.  “ _Where did you get this?_ ” he finally manages.

“Where do you think we got it?” Hardy asks.

Archie’s mouth opens and closes soundlessly before his eyes narrow and he throws the paper across the table.

“How the fuck would I know?” he growls, glaring at Hardy.  “I didn’t even know that--wherever that’s from--even existed!”

“It’s a page out of Francesca Livingstone’s journal,” Miller says briskly.  “The journal starts about a year before she disappears and ends two days before that night.  She’s very explicit about her plans for her mother, and what your role was to be in carrying out those plans.”

Archie’s mulish expression doesn’t change as he switches his glare from Hardy to Miller, but he says nothing.

“Is it true?” she asks.

“What does it matter now?” he snaps.  “Frankie’s dead and her old cow of a mother is still alive, without a hair on her head being harmed.”

Miller’s eyes never waver from his.  “We don’t know,” she says softly, “but _somebody_ thinks it matters.  You may as well tell us.  Like you said, what does it matter now?  It’s not like you’re going to be charged with anything since you never actually tried to kill Dottie Livingstone.”

“Or did you?” Hardy says.  “Is that what happened that night, Archie?  You were trying to kill Dottie but something went wrong and Frankie got hurt instead?”

“No!” Archie shouts. “I never tried anything!” 

He groans as he furiously rubs his hands over his face.  He drops his hands, sighs and grimaces ruefully at Miller.

“You’re right,” he says, “what does it matter now?” 

He slouches back in his chair and looks from Miller to Hardy and back again.  “Yes, it’s true.  Frankie was determined to get out from under her mother’s thumb, and if you knew half the things that woman did to her, you’d understand why.  And yes, she wanted me to do it.  Kept after me and after me and fucking _after me!_   I put her off as long as I could.  I mean, I come from a rough family, had even rougher friends and was living a rough life, but... _murder_!”  He shakes his head.  “That’s a long way from stealing cars and small-time dealing!  I told her she was watching too many crime shows on the telly, didn’t want to believe she was serious, but she just kept on about it.”

“Until you finally agreed to do it?” Hardy says.

Archie shrugs.  “It shut her up, at least for a while.  Then she _really_ got serious.  Started talking ways and means, setting up alibis, whether I should hide the body or just leave it in the house to be found, how she should react to the news, what she should tell the cops.”  He shudders.  “The more she talked, the less I wanted anything to do with it, but...”  He trails off.

Hardy raises an eyebrow.  “But?”

Archie sighs.  “But I loved her.  Anything Frankie wanted done, I’d do.  Even murder.”  He glances at Hardy then at Miller.  “Have either of you ever loved somebody enough to do literally anything for them?”

“Not murder,” Hardy and Miller say flatly then share a look before turning back to the man in front of them.

Archie chuckles a little.  “No, I suppose you two would have drawn a line.”  He sounds more wistful than sarcastic.  He heaves a sigh, and continues.  “It all might have stayed just talk if I hadn’t gotten that job in London and her mum refused to help out until Frankie could find a job, too.  We couldn’t stand the thought of being apart, and then Frankie…”  He hangs his head.  “Frankie reminded me she was an only child, and her mum was loaded.  If her mum was gone, we’d get all that lovely lolly and all our problems would be solved.”

“What really happened that night, Archie?”  Miller asks gently.

Archie looks at her with tear-filled eyes.  “I honestly don’t remember.  We went to all the places I told you, and after Chumley’s, it’s nothing but flashes.  Binky passed out at a table and Del staying behind to take care of her.  Walking and drinking.  And Frankie’s voice...angry and loud and _scared_.”

“What do you remember _doing_?” Hardy says.  “What do you remember _feeling_?  What are the last things you clearly remember?”

Archie scowls, thinking hard.  “I remember...I remember walking out of Chumley’s.  Staggering, really, and...falling.  Leaning on one of the others.”  He’s silent as he searches his memory, then slowly says, “I remember having a drink in Chumley’s and dancing with Binky and Del.”  He smiles suddenly.  “Those two loved to dance.”  He sobers.  “They all did.”

“How many drinks did you have in Chumley’s?” Hardy asks.

“One, that I can remember.  But the others said I started slamming them back not long after we got there.  Probably why I can’t remember anything after that point.”

“Did something happen to cause you to drink more heavily?”

Archie grimaces and once again scrubs his hands over his face.  He looks at them with a sigh.  “We were supposed to do it that night.  Kill her mum.  We were going to slip something into everybody’s drinks at Chumley’s so they wouldn’t really know what was going on, then I was going to slip away, steal a car, go do it and get back without any of the others being the wiser, and all of them willing to swear I never left their sides all night because they would be in no shape to really remember if I was there or not.”

He spreads his hands and shrugs.  “The only thing I can think is that I grabbed the wrong glass at some point.  I remember flashes, like I said, and I woke up the next morning in my flat, with Binky and Del passed out in the living room.” 

He grimaces.  “I was never so scared and confused in my life!  Had I killed the old biddy or not?  I hoped I’d remember it if I did, but...nothing.  I couldn’t say anything to any of the others because none of them knew about it, and I couldn’t get Frankie on her phone.”  He shudders.  “To be honest, I still don’t know which scared me more:  committing a murder I couldn’t remember or dealing with Frankie if I hadn’t got the job done.”

Hardy and Miller frown.

“ _None_ of the others knew about the plan?” Hardy asks sharply.

“None.  The fewer who knew, the less likely somebody would go to the police, yah?  I mean, we covered for each other, but stealing the occasional car here and there isn’t the same thing as murder, is it?  Besides, I didn’t want the others burdened with it.”

“Frankie’s journal is very clear that at least some of the others were involved in the plan,” Miller says flatly.

Archie’s eyes widen.  “No,” he says firmly, “nobody else knew.  She promised she’d leave the others out of it.”  He glances from one to the other, taking in the expressions on their faces.  “No,” he says, furiously shaking his head, “Frankie promised—she _swore_ it was just the two of us!”

“It’s very clear from the journal that there were others involved in the plan,” Hardy says.

“It was just supposed to be just the two of us,” Archie whispers.  “The others didn’t deserve to be burdened with that shit!  Binky had too strong a sense of justice--she hated it when we stole cars!  And Del!  Del was just a sweet, good-hearted girl, in spite of that brutal arse of a dad of hers.  She didn’t need any more shit piled on her.”  His eyes widen.  “If others knew about the plan, does that mean...is it possible I didn’t make a mistake that night?  Was I deliberately drugged?  Is it possible that I didn’t do anything to Frankie after all?”

Hardy tilts his head to one side.  “You tell us.”

Archie simply stares sightlessly at the table in front of him.

“Archie?” Miller coaxes.  “Who else might have killed Frankie?”

“Maybe nobody,” he whispers hoarsely.

*/*/*/*/*

“Do you think Francesca faked her death?” Miller asks Hardy on the drive back to their hotel.  “Think she’s been hiding out, watching all her friends fall apart?”

He sits silent, thinking it through, then says, “Unlikely.  If she was so open in her journal about what she planned for Dottie, I can’t imagine she’d leave something like that out.”

“Unless she didn’t plan it.  Just ran when Archie accidentally drugged himself and she couldn’t convince anyone else to help her.”

He concedes the point with a nod.  “Or maybe the journal wasn’t written when we think it was written.”

Her head whips round at that.  “What the bloody hell does that mean?”

“If Francesca is alive and knows we’re poking round her disappearance, she could have written that journal last week just before she dropped it in the post.”

“Oh, God,” Ellie groans.  “What is there in this case that we can grab on to and _know_ it’s the truth?”

“Well,” Hardy says with a sigh, “Archie Reynolds really did confess.”

*/*/*/*/*

They go out for dinner, bickering companionably the entire time.

“Why didn’t we stay with Rachel and Charlie?” Ellie asks suddenly as they’re strolling back to their hotel in the crisp autumn air.

Hardy shakes his head.  “Mackenzie’s down from London this week.”

“Ah.”  She shivers a little in the cool wind and startles away as he moves to slip an arm round her shoulders.  He quickly lowers his arm, looking embarrassed.

“No,” she says hastily, “it’s all right.  It just surprised me, that’s all.”

He looks at her, uncertain, before cautiously putting his arm round her and snugging her closer to his warmth.  She smiles a little anxiously as she hesitantly slips her arm round his waist.

“I never really thought you’d be the PDA type, Hardy,” she says with forced brightness.  He scowls in confusion and she laughs, relaxing slightly.  “Public displays of affection,” she clarifies.

Now he looks startled.  “This isn’t a public display of affection,” he scoffs, “I’m just trying to stay warm.”  Then, before she registers what he’s doing, he stops in mid-stride, swings her round to face him and presses a warm kiss against her mouth.  He lifts his head and gives her a cheeky grin.  “Now _that’s_ more like it.”

She’s still sputtering as he starts them walking again.

*/*/*/*/*

The kiss good-night outside her hotel room is longer, more thorough, and leaves her with a happy grin as she slips into her hotel room and leans her back against her closed door.

Yes, she thinks as she dreamily gets ready for bed, these ‘extras’ are a very good idea indeed.

*/*/*/*/*

They meet in the hallway the next morning, where they share a quick kiss before checking out, eating breakfast, and going to the police station to meet with Rebecca.  She shakes Miller’s hand with a speculative gleam in her eyes before they sit in front of her desk and explain what they’ve discovered.  She considers them in thoughtful silence once they’ve finished.

“Do you think Frankie might still be alive, then?” she finally asks.

Hardy huffs a sigh and shrugs.  “Unlikely,” he says, “but we’ll still run some searches on her ID, see if anyone’s used it in the last eleven years.”

“So, if Frankie isn’t still alive, then...what?  One of the other AlphaBetties was also involved?”

“Most likely more than one,” Miller says, “and possibly all of them.  Witnesses saw the entire group within two blocks of Chumley’s and said some of them were leaning on their friends.  None of the statements identify who was helping who, if they could even figure it out then.”

“And after eleven years, it’s unlikely they’ll be able to remember any details now,” Rebecca sighs.  “Where does that leave you?”

“Where we started:  with the AlphaBetties,” Hardy says.

“So all you have to do is get one of them to talk.”

Hardy nods.

Rebecca leans forward in her chair.  “I’ll put in the paperwork to have the case officially re-opened.  You two work with Isabella to put out a press release; make it a general call for new witnesses to come forward, yah?”

“Yah,” Hardy says as he rises to his feet.  “We’ll let Dottie know today.”

Miller stands, too, as does Rebecca.  She gives Miller a rueful smile and says, “I’m glad to finally meet you, Ellie.  Next time you’re in town, leave a little time in your schedule so we can go for drinks.  We’ll share Hardy war stories.”

“I am standing right here,” he says drily.

“Why do you think I made the invitation now?” Rebecca says and grins.

They’re at the door when Hardy pauses and turns.  Rebecca lifts an eyebrow in question.

“The review of Tess and Dave’s cases.  How’s that going?”

Rebecca’s eyes flick to Miller then back to Hardy.  “We’re progressing.  We received a tip a couple weeks ago, told us to take a closer look at a couple of cases.  We’re just finishing that off now.  I’ll let you know as soon as we’re done.”

Hardy frowns, eyes narrowed as he stares at her.  “A tip?  From whom?  About what?”

“Anonymous,” Rebecca says smoothly. “Probably nothing, but you know how it is with tips:  you have to follow every one even if they’re just dead ends.”

Hardy stares at her in puzzled silence until finally he nods.  “Right,” he says, and follows Miller out of the office.

*/*/*/*/*

He’s still frowning as they walk in to Isabella’s office.

“Well,” she says with a grin, tossing her pen on her desk and leaning back in her chair, “it’s lovely to see your smiling face again, Hardy.  Ellie, you look smashing,” she adds with more sincerity.

Hardy rolls his eyes.  “Rebecca already call down?”

“Of course,” she says, waving them towards the chairs in front of her desk and leaning forward.  “This is very exciting!  Re-opening a case everyone thought was solved what?  Ten years ago?”

“More like nine,” Hardy and Miller say together, then glance ruefully at each other.

Isabella nods, bright eyes flicking from one to the other as she fights the smirk tugging at her lips.  “Right,” she says, “nine years ago.”  She pulls a pad of paper in front of her and picks up a pen.  “So, you’ll be sending out a call for new witnesses, yah?  You probably want some local press as well, call attention to it, maybe stir up some memories?”

Hardy scowls but says, “Yah.  The bloody media can make themselves useful.”

“You won’t give interviews, I take it?”

“God, no!  A statement through you, of course, but that’s it.  Nothing really to be interviewed about, anyway.”

“Oh, Hardy,” Isabella sighs, “for a detective, you really do try to bury your head in the sand, don’t you?  Besides the whole ‘Hardy and Miller Together Again’ angle, the Livingstone case was _the_ case everyone followed when it happened.  This entire city sighed with relief when Archie Reynolds confessed and another one when he was sentenced.  The fact her body was never found has always been a lingering sore point.  You must remember some of this!  You were here then, yah?”

Hardy shifts uncomfortably.  “It wasn’t my case, but I followed the story in the papers,” he mutters.  “I don’t remember the details.”

“So how do you expect some poor bloke who might have once passed these people on the street eleven years ago to remember anything and come forward with it?” Isabella demands.

“I don’t,” Hardy says, “but the people involved in the crime don’t know that.”

Isabella gapes then laughs.  “Right then, I’ll get working on the press release.  When do you want this to go out?”

He glances at Miller.  “Any time after we talk to Dottie.  If we don’t see her today, I’ll let you know.”

Isabella nods.  “Right.  You’ll have something in your e-mail by the time you get to your office tomorrow.  We should be able to make Saturday’s paper.”

They nod and stand and start to leave the office.

“Hardy,” Isabella calls, and he pauses.  “You know this is going to bring the media down on you again, right?”  She glances at Ellie.  “On you, too.  They’re going to absolutely love this.”

Hardy rolls his eyes.  “Try to hold them off, yah?  They’ll just get in the way.”

“I’ll do what I can, but if we put your name out there as the lead detective, well...there’s not much I can do about it.”

“Can’t you keep our names out of the press release?” Ellie asks.

Isabella shrugs.  “We can give that a try, but it’s not standard protocol.  People need to know who to speak to, if they come forward.”

Hardy groans and scrubs his hands over his face.  “Do what you can,” he growls.  “The longer you can keep them out of our way, the better.”

Isabella looks doubtful.  “I’ll do my best,” she says, “but they’re still interested in you, you know.”

“I don’t care,” he says flatly, and walks out of the office.

*/*/*/*/*

Dottie looks stunned when they finish updating her on the course of their investigation. The blood had drained from her face, leaving her looking her age for the first time since they met her.

Hardy leans closer, his dark eyes intent on her face.  “Do you still think Francesca is alive?” he asks softly.

She stares at nothing, her mouth working as she mulls the question.

“Maybe,” she whispers, her voice a thin thread in the silence of the room, “although it wouldn’t be like her to send you the journal.  At least not one that would cast her in a bad light.”

“Do you have anything of Francesca’s here?  Any more journals?” Miller asks.

Dottie blinks and seems to remember they’re still in the room with her.  “I--yes.  Personal things, clothes and trinkets, that sort of thing.  But no journals.”  She gives them a thin smile.  “I’ve gone through those boxes endless times in the years since she disappeared; I would have noticed journals by now.”

“Is there an address book or something similar?”

Dottie shakes her head.  “Whatever there was would have been kept by the police, wouldn’t it?”

“At the time, yes.  But after so many years, and the case was officially closed...”

“Whatever there was might have been destroyed?”

Hardy nods.

Dottie sighs and rubs her eyes.  “Well, you can ask Elena or Ginger if they have anything like an address book or something similar.”

Hardy’s eyebrow rises.  “Why those two?”

“They were the first of the AlphaBetties.  They were Francesca’s oldest friends.  If anyone has a stray journal or papers or something like that of hers, it would be them.”

*/*/*/*/*

Ginger yanks open the door and blinks at them in bleary surprise.  “You,” she finally says.

“May we come in?” Miller asks.

Ginger runs a hand through her dark cloud of sleep-tangled hair and looks despairingly behind her.  “Yah, why not?” she mutters and steps aside.

They follow her in to the living room where empty beer bottles are littered on every surface and on the floor along with overflowing ashtrays.  The place smells stale and smoky, and Ellie’s nostrils twitch at the smell of rotting food drifting through from the kitchen.

Ginger rubs her hands against her rear and mumbles, “Haven’t got to the cleaning yet today.”  She gestures vaguely towards a sofa that’s half-obscured by a quilt that’s halfway on the floor.  “I can--”

“No, no, we won’t be long,” Miller says with an uncomfortable smile.  “We’re calling to see if you have any of Francesca’s papers or other of her personal items.”

Ginger frowns, one hand resting on her hip while the other alternates between trying to bring some kind of order to her hair and rubbing at her temple.  “Papers?  Frankie’s papers?  Like...her birth certificate or something?”

“No, no--an address book, notebook, journal, notes on scrap pieces of paper--anything like that.”

Ginger shakes her head, blinking owlishly, and Hardy’s not sure if she’s still asleep or just hungover.  He suspects it’s a combination of both.

“What are you looking for those things for?” she finally asks.

Hardy says, “We’re officially re-opening the case and searching for anything that might have been overlooked in the first investigation, or perhaps returned once it was closed.  We’ve also received an anonymous tip that Francesca might have faked her death and is alive and well, living under an assumed name.”

“ _What?_ ”  The word is barely a breath as Ginger’s eyes pop wide and she sways.

“Is Frankie the kind of person who would do something like that to her friends, Ginger?” he asks softly, his eyes boring into hers.  “Would she do something like that to her mother?”

“God...” she whispers.

Hardy holds her gaze, eyebrows rising as he waits.

“I--God--I don’t know!” she finally manages.  “Why would you take such an idea seriously?”

“We have to follow every tip, even if it leads to a dead end.  You don’t think Frankie would do such a thing?”

“I don’t know, I said!” she says, an edge of panic in her voice.  “I never thought about it!  And no, I don’t have anything that belonged to Frankie!”

Hardy’s expression doesn’t change.  “Do you remember where you were living when she disappeared?”

Ginger blinks at the sudden change in direction then scowls.  “Right here,” she says flatly.  “This was my parents’ house.”

“You were living with them?”

“Me mum.  My dad died just over a year before Frankie disappeared.  Left us in a bad way but at least the insurance paid off the mortgage.”

Hardy nods and makes another note.  “Do you remember where the others were living?”

“Exact addresses?  Not bloody likely!”

“We know Frankie had her own flat,” Ellie says, “and you were living with your mum here.  What about the others?”

Ginger blows out a nervous breath and says, “Del was living at home with her arse of a dad.  He liked to take a round or two out of her the second she put a foot wrong.  Archie was sharing a flat but we didn’t spend much time there; his flatmates were a bit scary, to be honest.  Umm...” she frowns, searching her memory.  “Cora was living with her parents, so was Binky, and Elena had just moved into her first flat a couple weeks before everything happened.”  She glares.  “You come all this way just for that?” she snaps.

“No,” Hardy says softly.  “Somebody sent us Frankie’s journal in the post.  A journal she kept during the last year before her disappearance.”

Ginger glances away then back.  “Oh?”

“It was very...enlightening.”

She stills, staring, wide-eyed and silent, and Ellie can’t help but think of a rabbit frozen in the glare of headlights.  Ginger finally clears her throat and croaks, “In what way?”

“Did you know Frankie was planning to kill her mother?”  Hardy’s voice is still silky soft and smooth, but there’s an edge to it that is as familiar to Ellie as her own voice.

Ginger’s still unmoving until she finally says, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, and I don’t believe you.  Frankie--”

“Was making plans to commit murder.  You were one of her closest friends, and you didn’t know?”

“Well,” Ginger says, finally showing some of the spirit implied by her name, “you’re not likely to tell anybody you’re planning to--to--to do _that_ , are you?  Unless you’re bloody daft and trust me, Frankie wasn’t daft!”

“No, I doubt Frankie was daft,” Hardy says brusquely, “but I’ve read the journal.  I’ve heard how she treated her mother and I’ve heard the way all of her friends refer to her mother.  She seemed to enjoy manipulating people.  I’m beginning to think it’s true, that she made it look like something happened to her and simply ran away.  Left the rest of you to take the blame, to mourn, to rip each other apart with suspicion and fear, maybe planted enough guilt and suspicion that it was only a matter of time before one of you confessed to a crime you didn’t commit.”

Ginger shrinks back beneath his words, fear and misery on her face, and beneath the dishevelled surface, Ellie catches a glimpse of the frightened young woman she had once been.  She watches as Ginger’s mouth opens and closes, her eyes darting round the room, then Ginger whispers weakly, “Frankie didn’t do that.”

Hardy raises an eyebrow.  “Do you know that for a fact?” he asks, his voice almost seductively soft.

“Archie _confessed_!”

“But he doesn’t know what he did.  Think about that, Ginger.  _He doesn’t know what he did!_   How do you kill somebody and _not_ remember everything you did, every action, every second.  How do you not remember the moment life leaves another person’s body when it’s your doing?”

“He was drunk,” she whispers helplessly, “drugged.  He didn’t realize what he was doing!”

“Oh?  You know that for a fact, do you?”

She gulps, tears springing to her eyes.  “I want you to leave,” she stammers, “I need you to leave!”

She all but pushes them out the door and Hardy and Miller walk back to the car in thoughtful silence.

“That was a bit cruel, don’t you think?” she says mildly as they drive away.

“It’s a murder investigation, Miller,” he says tiredly. 

“I know.  Still.”

He turns and stares silently out the window.

*/*/*/*/*


	16. Chapter 16

*/*/*/*/*

As they head to Broadchurch, Ellie isn’t sure if she should apologize to Hardy, demand he get his head out of his arse and realize he hadn’t needed to be quite so brutal with poor Ginger, or simply let him get his brooding out of his system.

She decides to do the latter and the drive is silent for several minutes until the third time she glances at Hardy only to find he’s still staring out the window, his expression unchanged.

“Oh, for God’s sake!  Are you doing your dark, brooding bullshit again?”

He turns a puzzled, frowning face towards her but doesn’t react.  Instead he says, “Ginger knows exactly what happened that night, and I wouldn’t be surprised if all the others do, too.”

“I agree,” she says, “but you didn’t--and don’t--need to bully that poor girl.”

He blinks at her, surprised.  “I’m not going to question Ginger again--at least not right away.  I want to take another run at the others, especially Del.”

“She’s in Leeds!”

“I remember,” he says drily.

“I don’t want to leave Fred again right now,” Ellie says.

“I know,” he says. “I’ll go myself.  Maybe take another DS along.”

She struggles to gape at him while keeping her eyes on the road.  “Are you--what the bloody hell happened to the man who kept me at my desk till half-two every morning?”

“Still here,” he says with a faint smile.  “If you hadn’t just spent more than a week away from home, I’d insist you come along, or if--” he stops and abruptly looks away.

Her hands tighten on the wheel.  “Or if I was still married to Joe,” she says flatly.

Hardy sighs and turns his head to meet her eyes.  “Or if Joe was still in his sons’ lives,” he says.

Ellie gasps and glares.  “If you’re trying to say we should have welcomed that rotten shit back with open arms--” Her voice gets louder with every word.

“Don’t be so bloody daft,” Hardy snaps, his voice rising to match hers, “of course I’m not saying any such thing!”

“Well, that’s not what it sounded like!” she shouts, and they yell at each other for a good five minutes before ending with “Good!” “Fine!” and sulky silence that lasts until Ellie finally says, in much gentler tones, “Why are we fighting?”

“God knows,” Hardy snarls, but he’s obviously pouting and it’s all so ridiculous she laughs.

“Seriously, Hardy,” she says with a sigh, “I’m not even sure I’m angry at you.”

He rubs a hand over his face.  “You’ve been angry with me since the day we met.”

She’s suddenly thrown back to the beach, seeing Danny’s trainers, and this rumpled wanker trying to stop her from contaminating the scene, this rumpled wanker who had also stolen her job and would end up arresting her husband.

“Yah,” she sighs, “but we’ve been through a lot since then.  Opinions--feelings--have changed.  Why do we still fight like this?”

He shrugs, not looking at her.  “I suppose it’s what happens when you’re honest with each other.”

The complete and utter truth of the words seem to make the world stop in its tracks.

“Joe and I seldom fought,” Ellie says softly.

Hardy’s silent for so long she thinks he’s going to ignore her until he says, “Same with Tess.”

Ellie ponders this for a few minutes then says, “So...if we ever stop fighting, we need to worry about our relationship?”

He turns and looks at her, his eyes soft and sad.  “Yah, maybe.”

She swallows, her hands flexing restlessly against the steering wheel.  “Well,” she says, overly bright, “no matter what else happens between us, Hardy, I know you’ll never deliberately lie to me.  You might withhold the truth, but you won’t outright lie.”

“Neither will you.”

She swallows past a lump in her throat at the calm sincerity in his words and says, “What happened to ‘don’t trust’?”

“That has no place with you,” he says and turns away.

*/*/*/*/*

Della is escorted in to the interrogation room the next day, and she’s as restless as she was the first time they interviewed her in Leeds.  Her plump, graceful hands flutter endlessly across the table as her eyes seek out every corner of the bare interrogation room and Ellie’s not sure if she’s looking for an escape route or sanctuary.  From the look on Della’s face, she may not know herself.

Hardy watches her carefully, then says briskly but not unkindly, “As I told you on the phone, we’ve reopened the Francesca Livingstone case.”

She nods, gives him a fleeting glance and quickly looks away.  “Why?” she asks.

“We’ve received new evidence that has caused us to believe Archie Reynolds didn’t act alone.  There’s even the possibility that he’s innocent.”

Della’s hands slow then stop and for the first time since they’ve met her, Della is completely still.  She frowns, blinking, her head lowered.

“What does that mean?” she asks, her voice faint.

“It means we’re re-investigating everything from the beginning,” Ellie says as she pulls her notepad closer.  “Now, tell us everything you remember about that day and evening and the next morning, no matter how silly it may seem.”

Hardy leans forward, focused on Della’s down-turned face.  “Start with when you got up that morning.”

Della barks a laugh as she lifts her head to look at them, but complies.  She lays out the small routines of her day without embellishment and ends with the group in Chumley’s, which is when everything goes foggy and her memory is only in flashes.

“Awright,” Hardy says, “after Chumley’s, what do you remember doing?  What do you remember feeling?”

She shrugs.  “I remember walking.  Stumbling, really.  I remember being in a place with dark wood and old men drinking at a table.  It was...quiet, except for the row, of course, and Frankie shouting.”  She suddenly frowns.  “I remember...no, I keep thinking we were in a car or something, but I was told it wasn’t that  night, that I was mixing things up with another time.”  She gives them a half-wistful, half-bitter smile.  “We went drinking a lot in those days.  _I_ drank a lot in those days.”

“Where did you wake up in the morning?” Ellie asks.

Colour rushes in to Della’s cheeks.  “Archie’s place,” she says.

Ellie’s eyes widen.  “Oh,” she says.  “You fancied him.”

Della grimaces.  “For all the good it did me.  He only ever had eyes for Frankie.”

“Were you jealous, Della?” Hardy asks.  “Jealous enough to hit Frankie or push her?  Did she fall and hit her head and suddenly you had a dead girl on your hands?”

Della stares, mouth sagging open as he speaks.  She blinks twice then laughs, stares at him and laughs even harder, doubling over. 

Hardy and Miller watch her with interest as she struggles to control herself.

“Oh, God--if you’d known Frankie, you’d know why that’s so funny!” she finally says, calming and she leans back with a bitter smile.  “There was no point in making play for Archie.  He was Frankie’s--and Frankie never gave up what was hers, at least never in one piece.  She once cleared out her closet and took a knife to every single thing she was throwing away.  She didn’t want anyone else to be able to use them if they dug them out of the garbage.”  She grimaces.  “Scared me, really.  Reminded me too much of me dad.”  She shakes her head. “I fancied Archie, yes, and both of them knew it.  Frankie didn’t care so long as I never threatened her sovereignty over him.”

“What would she have done if you had?”

She smiles bitterly, leans closer and says, “She took a _knife_ to things she didn’t even _want_ anymore.  What do you think she’d have done to protect what was hers?”

“If she was so dangerous, why were you friends with her?” Ellie asks.

She sighs and leans back in her chair.  “She was exciting--they were all exciting!  And they _liked_ me, made me feel like I belonged somewhere...gave me places to hide when I had to get away from me dad.  They even tried to protect me.”  She grimaces.  “Didn’t work, but nobody had ever even tried before.  I had Frankie to thank for that.  I owed her for that.”

“Owed her enough to help her kill her mother?”  Hardy asks brusquely.

Della gasps.  “ _What_?  No!  And what are you even talking about?  Her mum’s still alive, unless she died since the last time I saw you!”

“Dottie is fine,” Hardy says, “but Frankie intended to have her killed the night Frankie disappeared.”

“No!”

“Yes.  If not you, then who would have been the most likely to agree to help her?”

She blows out a breath of air and shrugs helplessly.  “Most likely?  Archie, of course, followed by Elena or Ginger.  Those two were the first ones, you know?  They were almost as devoted as Archie.”

“What about Bianca and Cora?”

“Oi, definitely not Binky!  She hated when we did anything that could get us into trouble.  As for Cora...” she frowns, considering.  “It would be unusual for her to be involved in something that... _bad_.  The occasional joy ride in a stolen car, the rare drug deal, but she had big plans and having a record wasn’t part of them...but if Ginger was involved...well, maybe.”  She gives them a slight smile.  “Archie loved Frankie into stupidity; Cora loved Ginger the same way.  Cora was the last one to join us, and it was only because she was dating Ginger.  Didn’t last long, though.  The dating, I mean.”

“Why not?”

Della gives them a sad smile.  “ _Frankie never gave up what was hers._   Oh, she wasn’t interested in either of them in that way, and she didn’t care if they fucked liked rabbits--but any and all love and loyalty belonged _only_ to Frankie.”

“None of this was in the case file,” Hardy says, his voice crisp with anger.  “Why wasn’t any of this shared with the investigating officers at the time?”

Della’s restlessness returns and her hands flutter uselessly across the surface of the table as she shrugs.  “We didn’t think it was relevant,” she says.  “Cora and Ginger had been over for years by then, and me and Archie, well, that was all me and it wasn’t like I was _pining_ for him, you know?  We didn’t think it mattered.”

“We?”

“The lot of us.  We talked about things after Frankie’s mum reported her missing and we just didn’t think it _mattered_.  And...” she hesitates, her hands searching and searching, “I can’t speak for any of the others, but I honestly thought Frankie was just playing with us and she’d show back up in a couple days.”  She grimaces.  “A part of me still thinks she’s coming back.”

*/*/*/*/*

It’s late in the afternoon when Hardy finally has time to check his messages and returns a call from Isabella that had come in early that morning.

“About bloody time,” Isabella says when she answers the phone.

“Working here, Isabella.  Problems with the press release?”

“No, but there’s something you didn’t share with me yesterday.”

He scowls and glances at Miller who’s clearing off her desk so she can leave for the day.

“What are you wittering on about, Isabella?” he snaps and Miller shoots him a look and shakes her head in admonishment.

“I’m sending you and Ellie a link right now.  I’m surprised you haven’t heard about it already.”

A cold knot curls in Hardy’s stomach and he lowers the phone.  “Miller,” he says and she pauses, giving him a questioning look.  “Isabella’s sending something through to us.”

Miller scowls as she comes round his desk to stand beside Hardy as he opens the e-mail and clicks the link.

Their eyes widen and their jaws drop as a celebrity gossip site fills the screen, with the headline ‘Detectives in Love?’ emblazoned above a picture of Hardy and Miller kissing on the street in Sandbrook.

“Aw, bloody hell!” Hardy shouts as Miller claps a hand over her mouth and backs away until she bumps into the wall a short distance behind his chair.

“Put me on speaker,” Isabella says, and he does, slapping the phone down on the desk with a disgusted growl.

“For God’s sake,” Hardy snarls, “aren’t they done with me yet?”

“Whether you like it or not, Hardy, you’re a bit of a celebrity now, and celebrities need to be more careful, especially in public.”

“Shit,” Miller groans, “we haven’t even said anything to the kids yet!”

Hardy buries his face in his hands.  “Does this fuck us up for the Livingstone investigation?” he asks.

“Oh, hell, no,” Isabella says.  “If you look at the comments, they’re almost overwhelmingly positive.  Except for a couple of trolls, of course, claiming Joe Miller’s lawyers were obviously right all along.”

“We were not having an affair!” Ellie yelps.

“I believe you, Ellie, but nobody cares about truth when it comes to celebrity gossip.  Now, I don’t think this damages anything--except for not telling the kids, of course--or anybody in Broadchurch?”

“We haven’t told anybody,” Hardy mutters.

“Well...” Miller says and gives him an apologetic smile.

“Beth?” he says without surprise.

“Yah.  And Luce.”

He sighs.  “Which means Ollie.”

“Probably.”

He sighs again.  “You sure Tom doesn’t know?  Or the boy down at the news agent’s?”  His sarcasm is withering.

“Let me worry about Tom--you need to worry about Daisy!”

“Oh, shit,” he groans.

They’re startled by Isabella’s laughter.  “Compared to the loss of key evidence in a highly sensitive case, I think this is pretty small potatoes.  Now, we should put out a formal statement, confirm your relationship has recently changed and request the media to respect your privacy...which absolutely no one will do, but we have to go through the motions.”

Hardy sighs.  “Fine, fine.  We’ll sign off on the press release.”

“Good.  I’ll send a draft tonight.  Now, when exactly did this romantic relationship start?”

Hardy looks over his shoulder at Miller and she moves closer, putting a soothing hand on his arm.

“Saturday,” she says.

“What, not even a week?” Isabella says with a note of disappointment.

“No,” Hardy says suspiciously, “why?”

“I’m pretty sure I lost the pool,” Isabella says, and laughs as she hangs up the phone.

*/*/*/*/*

Hardy calls Daisy and asks her to meet him at the house before she goes for her usual Friday night sleepover with Chloe.

She hurries in, cheeks ruddy from the autumn air, and gives him an anxious smile.  “What’s going on, Dad?”

“I wanted to talk to you about something, Daisy.”

Her eyes widen.  “You’re scaring me, Dad.”

“You’re not in trouble,” he says quickly, “it’s just...”  He gestures for her to sit on sofa and she perches on the edge, watching him anxiously as he sits beside her and takes her hand.  “A story broke today.”  Daisy pulls in her breath with a hiss and he grimaces.  “Sorry, darlin’, I’m going about this all wrong.  It’s not--I should have told you first.”

“Dad…” Daisy groans, “just tell me!”

He takes a deep breath, then says in a rush, “A picture was posted on the Internet today of Miller and I...kissing.”

He holds his breath.

Daisy blinks.

“That’s it?” she asks.

He nods.

She grins.  “Dad, that’s, like, old news round here.”

Now it’s his turn to blink.  “What?”

She rolls her eyes, then squeezes his hand that’s still holding hers.  “Dad.  _You kissed her good-bye._ ”

He flushes. “Right,” he mutters.

She grins.  “Besides, I saw the two of you in the garden on Sunday.”

His flush deepens.

“Na, na--you were just hugging.  I came down for something to drink and heard your voices so I looked out a window.  I went back to my room right away.  Figured you needed your privacy.”

He closes his eyes.  “Daisy--”

“Are you feeling guilty because you didn’t say anything before now?  It hasn’t been that long since you kissed her good-bye and one or the other of us has been gone for most of it!”

“But--there’s a picture--”

“You’re just kissing!  And it’s not, like, gross, get-a-room-kissing, either!”

“You’ve seen it.”

She laughs.  “I have an alert set up for your name--of course I’ve seen it!  It’s a nice picture, really.”  Her smile becomes wistful.  “You looked...happy.”

He ducks his head and gives her a small smile.

“Have you told her how much you love her?”

He looks stricken and struggles to determine what to say.  He settles for, “She’s not ready for that.  She’s not even sure she likes me all that much.”

Daisy throws her arms round him.  “Well, I love you, Dad.”  She pulls away and smiles.

Hardy says, “Why didn’t you ask me about it, if you saw us on the weekend?”

“I knew you’d tell me when you were ready,” she says calmly.  “Mind if I go to Chloe’s now?  It’s movie night.”

He grimaces and nods.

She kisses his cheek and heads towards the door where she pauses.  “So, when did this really start?  Between you and Ellie?”

“Saturday.”

“Ooh,” Daisy says happily, “I think I won the pool!”

“What?” he sputters, but she’s already gone, her laughter ringing through the house.

*/*/*/*/*

Ellie watches Tom, waiting for his reaction, and is grateful she thought to ask Lucy to take Fred for the night.

He’s leaned over, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped in front of him.

“Tom?” she asks anxiously.  “Say something.”

“It’s only been a year,” he whispers.

She closes her eyes.  “I know.”

“Do you love him?”

“I don’t know.”

“What about Dad?”

She blinks.  “What about him?” she asks.

“Did you love him at all?” His voice cracks.

“Oh, Tom,” she says and puts an arm round him, tugging him close, guiding his head to her shoulder.  Tears spring to her eyes and she wonders what she can say.  Tom may be thirteen now, and he may look much older than his years, but he is still just a child, a child struggling with understanding why the father he adored had done something so horrible.  How? she wonders.  How can she help him understand when she’s nowhere near understanding it herself? 

Tom mumbles something against her shoulder and she frowns.

“What was that?”

Tom sniffles then says, his voice thick with tears and fear, “How can you love us--me and Fred--if you never loved him or...or if you hate him now?”

Now her tears start to fall and she cups Tom’s face and makes him look her in the eyes as she struggles to finds words. 

Finally, she says, “I loved your father so, so much, Tom, more than I can ever tell you.  But the Joe I loved wasn’t real, and I honestly don’t know what was real or not anymore when it comes to him.  I can’t deny he was a wonderful dad to you and Fred, but I also can’t deny what he did with Danny...and to him.  I’m the only one who can come to terms with my relationship with your dad, just like you’re the only one who’s going to be able to decide, some day, what was real and what wasn’t in _your_ relationship with him.  Fred will have to do it, too, when he’s old enough to understand what happened.

“A part of me will always love Joe--the Joe I thought he was--just like a part of you will always love your father.  That’s not _wrong_ , Tom.  But loving somebody doesn’t mean you pretend their bad actions are okay.  Actions have consequences.  Do you understand that?”

Tom watches her carefully then gives a small nod.

“Now, I want you to understand this, too:  I love you _for you_.  Just like I love Fred _for Fred_.  Awright?  My feelings for you are not dependent upon who your father is or what he’s done, just like I will judge you on _your_ actions and not his.”  She gently runs a hand through his hair.  “Do you understand _that_?”

He nods again, eyes wide and tear-filled.

Ellie pulls him in to a tight hug.  “I love you, Tom,” she says fiercely, “and I’ll do whatever it takes to make you believe it.”

It takes a few minutes for their tears to subside, then Ellie loosens her grip and says, “I’ll tell Hardy that we can’t do this right now, that we’re not ready for this--as a family.  He’ll understand.”

Tom stares at the floor.  “Does he make you happy?” he asks.

Ellie pauses, thinking it odd that she hadn’t really asked herself that question, and yet her answer is immediate.  “Yes,” she says.  “In a strange, never-would-have-believed-it way, yes, he makes me happy.”  She smiles suddenly, her cheeks flushed pink, and says again, “Yes.”

“Then...then...”  He pauses, struggling to find words before he rather helplessly says, “I want you to be happy, and if he makes you happy...”

Ellie smiles.  “That’s sweet, Tom, but there’s no rush.  Who knows?  If we wait for say, six months, everything we think we’re feeling right now might change.”

“No, Mum, I don’t want you to wait on my account.  I mean, if it isn’t Hardy, it’d be some other bloke, right?”

She blinks, taken aback.  “Well, I’m not sure how to take that.”

“I just mean you would be going out on dates, yah?”

She concedes the point with a nod.

“So it may as well be Hardy.  At least I kind of like him.  Now.  And Daisy’s brilliant, so...I mean...it could be worse.”

Ellie wonders if she looks as appalled as she feels.  “Right,” she says faintly.

He gives her a worried look.  “I really do want you to be happy, Mum.”

She smiles.  “Thank you, Tom, and I won’t break things off with Hardy.  But I want you to promise me-- _promise_ me!--that you’ll talk to me if you’re having problems with it, yah?  You and Fred are the most important people in my life.  If you’re unhappy, I’m unhappy.  So if you find you need more time before I start dating somebody, tell me.”

Tom nods and Ellie pulls him in to another bear hug.

“I love you more than chocolate,” she whispers in his ear and his arms tighten round her.

They pull apart and he says, “What if Dad sees those pictures and the stories?”

Her eyes widen.  “...hopefully he won’t.”

“But if he does?”

“Then I guess he sees it.”  She gives him a reassuring smile.  “Don’t worry about your dad, Tom.  Now,” she says, slapping her knees, “what do you want to do tonight?  Fred’s at Aunt Lucy’s, so it’s just you and me.”

Tom looks stricken.  “Daisy and Chloe invited me for movie night at Chloe’s.  I was going to ask if I could go...”

“Oh.  Oh!  Of course.  What movie are you watching?”

“That latest superhero movie is finally streaming.  Are you sure I can go?  I can always watch it tomorrow.”

“No, no--it’s lovely they’ve invited you.”

“Thanks, Mum.”  He smiles as he gets to his feet.  “Really, thanks.”

She follows, feeling a little forlorn, and watches as he puts on his shoes and pulls on his jacket.

“Oh,” Tom says, “when did all this...stuff start with Hardy?”

“Saturday,” she says, a little surprised.  “Why?”

He kisses her cheek, opens the door and steps outside with a thoughtful frown.  “I think Daisy won the pool, then,” he says.

“ _Tom!_ ” Ellie yelps, but he’s already gone.

*/*/*/*/*

Hardy opens his back door, eyes the plastic bag Ellie is carrying and steps aside to let her in with a raised eyebrow.

“Ice cream,” she says glumly.

“Tom didn’t take it well?” he says as he closes the door.

“More because he lost the pool,” she says drily.

“Oi,” he sighs.  He gestures at the ice cream.  “Bowls or just spoons?”

That surprises a grin out of her.  “Spoons,” she says, “and let’s see if we can find some stupid movie to watch.”  She raises a finger in warning.  “ _Not_ a romance!”

“God, no,” he growls as he grabs two spoons and follows her to the living room.

*/*/*/*/*

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N:  The idea of everyone having a pool on when Hardy/Ellie would get their acts together was inspired by a comment made on Empty Spaces.  I’ll dig out who made the comment and do a proper shout-out to them later (because it’s late and I want to post this before I go to sleep tonight.  :) )
> 
> Edited to add: Ah-ha!! It was Jalola on Chapter Ten (my number)/Chapter Twelve (AO3 number) of Empty Spaces!! So shout-out to her for the idea!! :D


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings:  Contains violence, blood, hints of child abuse, mention of suicide.  It’s not graphic or explicit, but some scenes may be disturbing.

*/*/*/*/*

Hardy and Ellie eat ice cream and watch three episodes of some light-hearted ‘detective’ drama from America and grumpily nitpick each breach of protocol ‘or simple logic, Miller!’ before spending twenty minutes making out on the sofa.  Miller tells him she just wanted him to shut the hell up.  They spend another ten minutes kissing good-bye at the back door and they’re both smiling as she leaves.

Brunch is at the Latimers the next day, and Hardy and Miller endure all the good-natured teasing about the picture on the web.

“At least you won the pool,” Hardy says to Daisy as they walk into their house that evening.

“I know my dad,” she says smugly and for a moment she looks exactly like her mother.

Hardy shakes his head and says, “How much did you win?”

“A fiver from everyone who was in it.”

“Do I even want to know how many that was?” he asks drily.

“Probably not.”

He heaves a long-suffering sigh just as his phone rings.  He raises an eyebrow when he sees it’s Rebecca.  His amusement quickly fades as she briskly tells him the Professional Standards review of Tess and Dave’s cases is complete and she’d like him in Sandbrook for Tuesday morning.

“Awright,” he growls, mentally rearranging the interviews with the rest of the AlphaBetties to later in the week. “I’ll be there.”

“Good,” Rebecca says, “I’ll see you at eight a.m.  Good-night, Hardy--oh, and tell Daisy I’ll give you the fiver I owe her.”

He’s still softly cursing as she hangs up the phone.

Daisy’s cheerful demeanour changes when he tells her about the appointment and what it’s about.  She ducks her head and nods when he tells her he’ll catch the train the next afternoon.

“Daisy?” he says.  “Things are going to be all right.  We’re going to get through this.  All of us.”

She nods without quite looking at him and escapes upstairs.

*/*/*/*/*

Hardy walks in to Rebecca’s office at eight sharp on Tuesday morning and gives her a nod.  She nods back, her face impassive, and she becomes even more impassive when a tense Tess and Dave arrive followed by a man Hardy doesn’t recognize.  The stranger is young and almost as tall and skinny as he is, and looks visibly nervous as he surveys the people in the room.

“Good,” Rebecca says briskly, “let’s begin.  This is DI Stewart from the Professional Standards Department.  His team completed the investigation.”  She nods at the man in question, and he nods back, his sharp Adam’s apple bobbing as he looks round and swallows.  Hardy sees Dave give Tess a smugly incredulous look as he visibly relaxes in his chair.

Stewart lowers his eyes, says “Right,” and flips open the folder he has in his hand.  He quickly scans the top page and looks back at Tess and Dave.  Suddenly the nervous boy is gone and in his place is a sharp-eyed investigator.  Hardy mentally raises his eyebrow in grudging admiration.

Stewart says, “We reviewed all of your cases since your affair began almost four years ago.”

Now Hardy’s eyebrow rises in reality as he does the math.

Stewart continues, “For the most part, there were no major breaches in police protocol or maintaining the chain of evidence.”

“For the most part?” Hardy says sharply.

Stewart gives him a small smile and nods at Rebecca.  “CS Cranston runs a tight ship, DI Hardy, and so did you.  There were numerous checks and balances to keep things proper.  Any breaches were small and cast no doubt on the evidence collected.”

“Until Sandbrook,” Hardy growls.

Stewart nods.  “Yes.  Until Sandbrook.”  He turns his attention back to Tess and Dave.  “The circumstances surrounding the theft of the pendant was the most egregious breach of protocol either of you had ever made.  During our investigation, you both confirmed it was Dave’s idea to stop for a drink and Dave who initiated the sex.”

Hardy winces as the other two nod and wonders if it’s ever going to get easier to hear about his former wife’s infidelities.

“We were already wondering what was so different about this particular case even before we received an anonymous tip telling us to look for a connection with Claire Ripley.”

Hardy’s jaw slowly sags open as the words sink in and he watches Tess and Dave’s faces flush then pale, then become almost grey.

“No,” he whispers.  “Tess--”

“Hardy,” Rebecca says firmly, “let Stewart finish.” 

Hardy subsides and Stewart continues.  “It took quite a lot of digging, but we finally found that connection.”  He pulls out four stacks of papers and gives one stack to each of the other four people in the room.  Hardy perches his glasses on his nose and peers at the information, scowling.

“It’s a bit convoluted,” Stewart says, “but we managed to trace five thousand pounds from Claire, to a hairdresser she was friends with, to an acquaintance of yours, Dave, and from there, to you.”

Dave scoffs.  “It says here you got a sworn statement from Claire herself.  You’re going to believe a convicted killer and a liar?”

“When it comes to this, yes, especially after it was corroborated by every link in the chain.  We have sworn statements from the hairdresser and your acquaintance, and they’re willing to testify.  We also found over a hundred calls from Claire Ripley to a burner cell phone, and one call from that burner cell phone to Claire.  That one call was made the day the pendant was found.”

Dave flushes.  “If it’s a burner, how could you possibly claim it was mine?  Your evidence won’t hold up in any court!”

“We’ll let a judge and jury decide that,” Stewart says calmly as he stands and opens the door to two uniformed officers.  Stewart puts Dave under caution while he’s being handcuffed and escorts him from the room.

Hardy sits in fuming silence, a silence that deepens as his mind whirls through everything he’s just learned and what it all means. 

Finally, he slowly turns to the woman who had been his wife, the woman he’d once loved with all his heart, the woman he once thought he knew better than anyone else in his life, and says, softly, “Did you know?”

Tess looks at him with tear-filled eyes.  “Alec...”

 _“Did you know?”_ His shout practically rattles windows and Tess flinches.

“I found out about six months later,” she says, her shoulders slumping in defeat.  “The case had fallen apart, Claire had disappeared, so had Lee, and you--well, we weren’t exactly talking at the time.”

“And it never occurred to you to report a corrupt cop?” he snarls.

“He swore it was only the once!  He was desperate for the money!  His ex-wife practically bled money, and he was on the verge of losing his house and--”

“ _Do you think I bloody care?_  He took a bribe, Tess, and allowed someone to steal evidence in a murder trial!  And if we had known who had stolen it, we would have been able to break the case there and then!  We could have gotten justice for Lisa and poor wee Pippa and Cate _then_ not two years later!  Why didn’t you tell me?”

“What good would it have done?  Claire was gone, so was Lee, and Ricky had been cleared!  _You_ should have told me when you started hiding Claire in some little cottage in the middle of nowhere!  If you had told me that--”

“Hardy’s not the one in trouble here,” Rebecca says, her cold voice slicing through the tension-filled room.  “He was cleared of any deliberate wrong-doing two years ago.”  Her voice is dry.

“Oh, and I haven’t yet?” Tess says bitterly.

“There’s no evidence tying you to Claire Ripley and the bribe,” Rebecca says calmly, “and there’s no indication that you actively tried to cover it up.  Yet you failed to report a crime and you’ll be expected to provide evidence in the case.”  She smiles thinly.  “This won’t surprise you, but I have to do this officially.  We are dismissing you, with prejudice.  Doris is outside and will escort you to Human Resources and then remove you from the premises.”

Tess’ eyes fill with tears as she nods and gets to her feet.

“ _Why_ , Tess?” Hardy asks suddenly.  “Why did you throw everything away?”

Tess laughs bitterly.  “Why’d _you_ do it, Alec?  What?  You think you’re the only one who’ll do anything for love?”

*/*/*/*/*

Rebecca sits with him for long minutes after Tess leaves.

“Who called in the tip?” he finally asks, not really interested, but he wants something to say to break the unreal bubble he’s in at the moment.

“You know I can’t tell you that.”

“Can you at least tell me what they said?  How did they know there was a connection to Claire?”

Rebecca hums then says, “They overheard an argument which seemed to imply there was more to the theft than simple coincidence or Claire managing to luck out while she skulked round after all your investigators.”

His blood turns cold.  “When did the tip come in?”

Rebecca’s eyes narrow and she purses her lips, then says, “Mid-September.”

He curses silently, but his train of thought is interrupted by the ringing of his phone.  He glances at it, sees Dottie’s name and frowns as he answers.

“Yah?” he says.

“Hardy--thank God!” Dottie says, almost tripping over her words.  “Ginger Delgado just left.  She’s drunk and just kept rambling on about how much she loved Frankie but Frankie was a horrible person and so was she, and she just kept saying she was sorry and that they had no choice.”

“Awright,” Hardy says soothingly.  “I’m in Sandbrook right now on a different matter that I need to clear up.  I’ll go over to Ginger’s place when that’s done--”

“No!  You don’t understand!  She’s stolen my car and I think she’s going to try and kill herself!”

*/*/*/*/*

Miller arrives in Sandbrook by half-two and meets Hardy at a small gas station on the outskirts of town.

“Haven’t found Ginger in any of her regular haunts or any sign of the car,” he says, speaking quickly while pointing in the direction he wants her to drive.  He continues to brief her as they go.  “The other AlphaBetties didn’t have any idea where she would go.  Some couldn’t remember any old favourite spots she might run to, and Ginger wasn’t at any of the ones they did remember.  Finally got through to Archie about twenty minutes ago.  They used to have a place down by the river, a clearing off the old King’s Road.  It’s a bit tricky to find, which is why they liked it.  It’s the only one we haven’t checked yet.  The others will meet us there.”

Ellie glances at him.  “Worried?”

He looks out the passenger window.  “The last time the river was involved, it didn’t end well.”

*/*/*/*/*

The sun is low in the sky when they finally find the small clearing where Archie said they used to park the cars.  Dottie’s car is there, parked at an angle, the driver’s door gaping open, the battery long drained.

Hardy calls for back-up, giving brusque, precise directions then turns to Miller and says, “They’re not far.  About ten minutes, maybe less.”  He starts off in the direction of the river and Miller gives him an anxious look and follows.

It’s quiet here in the growing dusk, the silence broken only by the crunch and crackle of branches and leaves beneath their feet and their voices as they occasionally call Ginger’s name.

Hardy becomes more grim with every step, his “Ginger!” louder every time he calls it.

They’re almost to the river when he calls her name again, and this time they’re rewarded with what sounds like a gasp and the rustling of somebody scrambling through the underbrush.  They hurry in the direction of the sounds but they’re still in the trees when they hear a sharp cry followed by a loud splash and the colour drains from Hardy’s face even as they begin to run.

He easily outpaces Miller, even with the trees and the treacherous terrain, and he bursts into a tiny clearing littered with empty beer and liquor bottles.  His foot twists on one of the liquor bottles and he almost falls, but he manages to keep going.  He pauses on the sharp embankment, and he sees it’s recently fallen away, creating almost a slide that goes right into the water.  He sees Ginger, floundering weakly against the current, almost in the middle of the river, and he isn’t sure if she’s disoriented or deliberately trying to reach the opposite shore.

It doesn’t matter; he sees her go under as he’s scrambling down the slope and there’s a distant part of his mind that registers Miller’s voice barking directions into the phone to their back-up and an even more distant part that’s howling in horror.

The cold of the water cuts deep and his shoes are lost almost immediately, but Ginger’s not moving very quickly and he’s reached her and got her on her back, her head resting on his shoulder and above water by the time Miller joins them.  She helps him support the weakly struggling woman as they inch their unbearably slow way back to shore.

Other officers arrive as they push and pull Ginger’s semi-conscious body up on the slightly shallower river bank and Hardy feels rough hands yanking him from the water and unceremoniously dumping him on the ground beside the river.  Hardy sees their rescuers bend over Ginger and he thankfully rolls on to his back.  He lays on his back, eyes closed, shivering uncontrollably, and struggles against letting the horror out with a scream. 

Could have been worse, he tells himself.  At least he didn’t go beneath the surface this time.

He turns his head to look at Miller, who’s kneeling beside him, her teeth clattering as she shivers.  Her wildly curly hair is plastered against her forehead and Hardy wants to brush it off her face but he can’t seem to control his hands or arms enough to do anything other than shake.

“Hardy,” she asks through chattering teeth, her dark eyes wide, “do you even know how to swim?”

He shakes his head, and closes his eyes with a sigh as two more officers rush up and wrap them both in coats.

*/*/*/*/*

They stay at the hospital long enough to shower the worst of the river mud off and to dress in borrowed clothes from the lost and found.  To their relief, Ginger is going to be fine, but her blood alcohol level is dangerously high and she’ll be kept in at least over-night.  With luck, they’ll be able to interview the next day.

Isabella meets them at Hardy’s hotel with a bag filled with new clothes and other necessities Ellie had requested.  To Hardy’s relief, she merely hands them each their particular bag, then--to his embarrassment--pulls him in to a tight hug.

“Stay out of rivers from now on, yah?” she says as she releases him and to his surprise, she has tears in her eyes.

He ducks his head and nods, and she smiles before turning to Miller and throwing her arms round her.  He doesn’t hear what Isabella whispers in Miller’s ear but judging from Miller’s expression and embarrassed smile, it probably isn’t anything he wants to hear anyway.

It seems the most natural thing in the world for Miller to stay with him.  She’d left Broadchurch in such a hurry, she hadn’t packed any clothes or booked her own room.  Not that it matters, really.  Won’t be the first time they’ve shared a room.

Miller tells him she’s going to get something to eat for the both of them, and he tells her he’s going to shower with the water as hot as he can stand it because he’s still wracked with occasional shivers.

It’s only as the water’s sluicing down him, making no impact on the chill that seems buried deep in his bones, that he wonders what his dreams will be like in the night.

He suddenly feels the heavy weight of Pippa in his arms and he slowly sinks to the floor and weeps.  Behind his closed lids he sees her face, how it had looked after three days in the river, and his tears scald his skin, burning hotter than the water pounding over his bowed head.

When the tears finally slow, he whispers, “This time we weren’t too late.” 

He opens his eyes and for one heart-stopping moment, he sees Pippa in front of him:  bright-eyed and beautiful and smiling proudly... _at him._  

She’s gone in an instant and he stays huddled beneath the streaming water for a long time afterwards.

*/*/*/*/*

He wants to stay awake.  He knows he’s going to have nightmares and he’s worried he’ll wake Miller, who needs her sleep just as much as he does.  She hovers over him until he eats at least some of the food she’s brought and when she shoves a cup of lukewarm tea in his hand and says, “Drink it--all of it”, he complies with only token grumbling.

When he wakes, it’s morning and he sleepily blinks at a smiling Miller who’s already dressed. 

He slowly sits up and he says, “What was in it?”

“A mild sedative.  The doctor wanted you to rest.  How do you feel?”

“I’m fine, Miller, although I need the loo and then tea.”

She tsks and says, “Seriously, Hardy.”

He throws off the covers and gets out of bed.  “Seriously.  I’m fine.”

“Well, that’s good.  It’s half-nine and they’re bringing Ginger to the station now.  She’ll be ready for us whenever we get there.”

“Right,” he says and puts his arms round her.  “How did _you_ sleep, Miller?”

She smiles, leaning against him.  “Well, it wasn’t quite as weird as last time.”

He rolls his eyes.  “Good to know,” he says, and kisses her.

*/*/*/*/*

When they walk in to the interrogation room, Ginger’s sitting on a chair at the table, her arms wrapped around her legs, her chin resting on her knees.  She’s wearing what looks like the same frayed jeans she’d worn the first time they’d interviewed her and a dingy t-shirt.  Her hair is freshly washed but uncombed and tangled.  She sighs, sounding exhausted, as they take their seats across from her.

They do the preliminaries for the record, then Hardy rests his arms on the table, his hands loosely clasped together and says, “Tell us what happened to Frankie.”

Ginger tilts her head back and stares at the ceiling, blinking tears from her eyes.

“God, Frankie,” she whispers.  “Even after all this time, she’s still the centre of it all.”  She looks at them.  “Have you ever had that?  That person who somehow becomes the most important person in your life and you don’t know how it happened?  Everything revolves round them so much that you would literally do anything and everything for them?  Frankie was like that for me.  All of us, really, in one way or another.  It was Frankie’s world and we all just lived in it.  I sometimes wondered if we only existed because she said we did.”

“Sounds like a cult.”

She looks at him and smiles a little bitterly at that.  “The Church of Frankie.  Sounds about right.  We were so lost once she was gone--and we drifted apart, since.  Just no way to get over what happened, I guess.”

Ginger shakes her head and runs shaking hands through her tangled hair, wincing as her fingers catch in the knots.

“God, I need a drink.  Could I have a drink, do you think?  Something to calm me down?”

“We can give you a soft drink or coffee or tea,” Hardy says, his voice kind.

“Fuck that,” Ginger groans, then shifts so she can rest her head on the table.

“Oh, God, Frankie!  You were supposed to look out for us!”

“Tell us what happened, Ginger,” Hardy says softly.

“Frankie wanted to kill her mum,” Ginger says dully, muffled a little by her arms.  “Frankie told us Archie promised to do it, but he was dragging his feet, so she wanted a back-up plan, just in case he couldn’t go through with it.  Archie had one last chance to do it, then we were supposed to do it and make sure Archie was the only one implicated.”  She lifts her head and looks at them.  “Frankie had no patience for traitors.”

“Were all the AlphaBetties a part of this back-up plan?” Miller asks.

Ginger shakes her head.  “Binky and Del were kept out of it.  They were never as rash as the rest of us.  Never had the nerve for breaking the rules.  Frankie said she wasn’t telling Archie about us, either, or he might have backed out immediately and let somebody else do his dirty work.”

She pauses, her head down as she picks at the fraying hole in her jeans.

“We went out that night, just like we said.  We were supposed to build an alibi.  At Chumley’s--it was closest to Dottie’s house--we were to slip something in to Binky’s and Del’s drinks, get them zonked so they wouldn’t know if we were together all night or not.  We were supposed to pretend to be drugged too, so Archie wouldn’t know we were following him to make sure he did it, or to do it ourselves if he broke and ran.”

She glances at their puzzled faces.  “We had no intention of doing anything to Frankie’s mum, but we needed to make sure Archie couldn’t do anything before we could talk some sense into Frankie.”  She huffs a bitter laugh.  “Not that you could ever change Frankie’s mind once she made it up.”

She sighs, and rubs a hand over her face.  “Archie had a couple shots of tequila in Chumley’s, trying to get brave enough to go and do the deed, you know?  Only I slipped something into his second shot.  Told Frankie he’d grabbed the wrong one--and downed it before I could stop him.  She was furious!”

_< “Why didn’t you fucking stop him?”_

_“I didn’t know, awright?  I can’t watch him the whole time, Frankie!”_

_“Oh, for God’s sake!  Let’s get them out of here before people start to notice something’s strange,” Elena hissed._

_Frankie growled, “Where do we take them?”_

_“Look, that part doesn’t have to change.  We take them to my place, Frankie, like we’d planned, and we’ll figure the rest out from there.”_

_Frankie glared, and Ginger knew there’d be hell to pay once they were away from other people._

_But they did as Elena suggested.  Frankie and Ginger took Archie, while Cora took Del and Elena took Binky._

_Elena’s tiny house wasn’t far from Chumley’s.  Small, and the dark wood on the walls made it feel even smaller.  Elena had only leased the place a couple weeks ago and only Ginger and Frankie had been there before.  Elena hadn’t had time yet to change the ‘artwork’ the previous tenant had painted on the walls of each room.  The living room was dominated by a life-sized mural of a couple of craggy, worn old men crouched over a table, mugs of Guiness in front of them._

_That one gave her the creeps the most, especially when she was drunk._

_Didn’t matter -- they weren’t real -- weren’t Del’s dad with his big hands, or Binky’s, all loud and angry and rough, or hers, for that matter, although hers--_

_She stopped that train of thought.  Nothing to be done there.  Drank himself to death a year ago, anyway--put them all out of his misery._

_She was too nervous; she needed a drink and said so once they put Archie and the others in the bedroom._

_“Really?” Frankie said with a raised eyebrow.  “Don’t you think you had enough?”_

_Not nearly enough, Ginger thought, not for what they had left to do tonight._

_She didn’t pour another one but joined the others back in the living room, her stomach tightening into a cold knot._

_This wasn’t going to be easy. >_

“We told her we weren’t going to do anything to Dottie.  We tried to convince her there was nothing really to gain from it all, that she wouldn’t be able to dodge the blame.  The truth always has a way of coming out.”  She laughs suddenly, high and thin and on the edge of hysteria.  “Look at me right now.

“She wouldn’t listen, though.  Said if we were too cowardly to do it, she’d do it herself and she’d make sure we all went down for it.  She was determined to do it that night--probably because Archie was leaving the next day.  We needed to stop her.”

“What did you do to stop her?” Hardy almost whispers, eyes intent on the woman across from him.

“We--we were in the basement by then,” Ginger whispers, and buries her face in her hands.  “She pushed past us, got up the stairs and we managed to catch her in the back porch.  We were all yelling and screaming by then, and we were grabbing her until Cora got in front of the door.  That’s when it got really physical, when she started hitting Cora and tried to push her out of the way.  Frankie couldn’t believe we’d dare to stop her.  _Fuck_ , I need a _drink_!”  She runs her hands through her hair again.

“What did you do, Ginger?” Miller asks gently.

“We hit her.  We just wanted her to stop and she wouldn’t, so we...hit her.”

“What did you hit her with?”

“Whatever was handy.  There were some--some--long boards, left by the previous tenant.  Someone had one of those.  There was a--a--a cricket bat.  Must have been Elena’s.  She used to play.”  She carefully places her hands palm up on the table and flexes them, like she’s remembering the feel of something in them.  “I--I had a brick.  I think I knocked out a couple teeth.”

< _They panicked, and rained blow after blow on her, even after she fell to the ground, hands covering her head.  There was no turning back now.  If Frankie got away--went to the police--no one would believe they’d been trying to stop her.  No one would believe they’d just wanted to help._

 _They were even more afraid she_ wouldn’t _go to the police._ >

Ginger suddenly claps her hands over her ears and cringes.  “She screamed so loud--and she tried to get away and we were all screaming by then--and the _sounds_ \--”  She doubles over, gasping for air, her hands almost squeezing her head like a vice.  “It took a long time for the noises to stop,” she whispers.

They wait in silence until they see her hands start to relax.

“What happened after that?” Hardy asks.

“Cora took charge.  Told us to strip there in the back porch--we were all covered with blood by then--and then we took turns in the shower and got into some of Elena’s clean clothes.  We closed up the back porch, then stole a neighbour’s car.  Managed to get the others on their feet and got them to Archie’s place and left them there.  Dropped the car on the other side of town then caught a taxi and went back to Elena’s.”

“What did you do with Frankie?” Miller almost whispers.

“Took her to our spot, down by the river.  Buried her there the next night.  Stole another car to do it.”

Ginger sighs, her hands dropping from where she was still clamping them against her ears.  She relaxes and blinks at them, mildly surprised.

“Where did the journal come from?  Why did you send it to Hardy?”

“Frankie hid it in her flat.  I found it and the others when we helped her mum clear it out.  I thought…you’d believe Archie really did do it if you knew he was willing to kill Frankie’s mum.”

“Why’d you keep them?”

“To remember her.”  Her face crumples.  “I really did love her.”

They watch her cry, then Hardy says, “Why did you make Archie take the blame?”

She sniffles, then says, “Cora said he may as well.  If we hadn’t stopped him, he really would have been a murderer.  We didn’t try to convince him he’d done it--he came up with that, all by himself.”

They sit in silence and a relieved calm begins to spread over Ginger’s face.

“Why didn’t you just go to the police about Frankie?”  Miller says.  “Tell them what she was planning?”

“Who would have believed us?” she says.  “And if Frankie had found out...”  She shudders.

“What would Frankie had done, if she found out?”

Ginger’s silent for long moments then says, “Cora was the last one to join the group--did anyone ever tell you that?  My first real love.  She joined the group when we were sixteen.  But we had another ‘C’ until the year we turned thirteen.  Callie.”

Miller and Hardy exchange a puzzled glance.

“Why did she leave the group?” Hardy asks.

Ginger lowers her eyes and plucks nervously at her jeans.

“She didn’t leave,” she mutters, “she died.  An extreme allergic reaction to something she ate.”

Hardy’s eyes narrow.  “Accidentally?”

Ginger shrugs.  “So they said.”

“But you know different?” Miller asks.

“I don’t know anything!  But...Frankie was with her last.  And she never cried.  I just always wondered.”  She relaxes and heaves a sighs.  “That’s good.”

“What’s good?”  Hardy asks.

“For the first time since it happened, I don’t hear the screams.”

*/*/*/*/*

They find the body exactly where Ginger said it would be.  Elena’s arrested that afternoon and Cora’s stopped at the airport that evening as she’s trying to get a flight out of the country.

There’s satisfaction and sadness as they go to Dottie’s house and tell her the news as kindly as possible, while cautioning her that the DNA tests still needed to be run to confirm Frankie had been found.

Dottie hears them out, tears trickling down her cheeks, and when they’re finished, she wipes her eyes and blows her nose and tries to smile.

“I suppose I really was an old woman living in delusional denial,” she says.

“No,” Hardy says, “you were a mother who didn’t know what happened to your daughter.  And you were right.  Archie didn’t do it.”

“But not because Francesca was alive.”

“No.  I’m sorry.”

Dottie nods, wipes her nose and looks at them.  “I knew you would find her.”

*/*/*/*/*

They finish the last of the paperwork that night, say good-bye to Rebecca and Isabella and tiredly make their way to the front doors to start the long trip back to Broadchurch.  They could stay another night, but Miller’s anxious to get back to her boys, and still lurking in the back of Hardy’s mind is what happened with Tess and Dave and how Daisy is dealing with it. 

“I don’t know about you,” Miller says as they approach the front doors, “but I’m going to interview every single one of Tom’s friends next week.”

“Aye,” he says, “I want to do the same with Daisy’s.”

They chuckle a little and he puts his arm round her shoulders as they walk out--

\--and slam into a kaleidoscope of flashing bulbs and shouted questions and a horde of reporters swarming towards them.

“Oh, for God’s sake!” Hardy shouts--and to absolutely no one’s surprise, that’s the picture on the front page of the local newspaper in the morning.

*/*/*/*/*

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N:  Well, folks, there are only two sections left, which might end up merged into one chapter.  *cries a little* I’m going to miss writing this fic.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm behind on responding to reviews; I'll get caught up in the next few days. :) In the meantime...here's the beginning of the end of this story...hope you enjoy. :)
> 
> Warnings: Um, broken glass resulting in a cut finger, so...blood?

Thankfully the Francesca Livingstone story isn’t quite as prominent as the Sandbrook case had been, and the reporters and photographers stop following them round after they give a press conference on Friday morning.  Still, there are a few more unfortunate photos on the web that both Daisy and Miller insist on printing and framing and putting on the mantle-piece in his living room.

He grumbles, but it amuses them so much he doesn’t have the heart to take them down.

He barely sees Daisy until Saturday evening.  He tries to persuade her to come home earlier but she’s busy, she says, and would see him that night.  He’s grumpy and snappish with Miller and wee Fred during the day until Miller finally packs the both of them home with a perfunctory good-bye kiss and a muttered “wanker” as he closes the garden gate behind them.

It’s the first time he smiles since they returned to Broadchurch in the early hours of Thursday morning.

He’s nervous as he waits for Daisy and when she walks in, he--to her disgust--gives her a hug and says, “We need to talk about your mother.”

Daisy’s gaze slides away from his, and she says, “About Dave’s arrest, you mean?  And her getting fired?”

“She’s called you, then?” he says, relieved.

Daisy nods.  “We chatted things through, yah.”

“Good.  Did you happen to tell her you were the one who called in the tip?”

Daisy freezes, staring as a flush climbs up her cheeks.  “How did--?  I mean, I don’t...” she trails off into uncomfortable silence.

His heart sinks that his hunch was right, and he hopes nothing shows on his face.

“No lies, Daisy,” he says sternly.  “The tip was called in round mid-September and the tipster had overheard an argument between Tess and Dave.  Bit too much coincidence that it was shortly after your holiday with them, when you were so upset about something you refused to share with me.” 

She sighs and nods.  “They had a big row one night.  We had adjoining rooms so I, well, I pressed my ear against the door so I could hear more of it.  Plus I was scared.  Even at the end, you and Mum never screamed like that!  I heard Claire Ripley’s name and how Dave better hope he covered the money trail enough.”  She scowls, then says, “At least Mum told him he was an idiot.

“I asked her the next day what it had been about.  She tried put me off, then she outright lied about it, and when I told her I’d heard some of it through the door, well...she went off about eavesdropping and trust and--”  Daisy shakes her head and waves a hand.  “I think our row was almost as loud as theirs!  Anyway, they brought me back to Broadchurch not long after that.

“I couldn’t decide what to do but I dug through the web and pulled up articles to understand a bit more about what had happened.”  She pulls a face.  “That Will Seymour really hated you!”

“I noticed.  So you decided to call in the tip, told them to look more deeply for a connection to Claire?”

She shakes her head.  “I called Uncle Charlie and talked to him about it.  We decided he’d call it in but I swore him to secrecy.”

Hardy sighs.  “I need to have a chat with Charlie about keeping secrets about my own daughter from me!”

“I made him promise, Dad!”

He puts his arm round her and squeezes her close.  “I know.”

She leans her head against his shoulder. “Are you very angry?” she mumbles.

“With your mother, yes, and Dave.  Not with you.”  He leans away to look at her.  “Why didn’t you come to me?”

She gives him an incredulous look.  “You almost destroyed your career over this once, Dad, and you were finally getting your life back together.  I wasn’t going to risk all that.”

He puts both arms round her and kisses her temple.  “I did it for you, Daisy.  I would do it again.”

She gives him an exasperated look.  “That’s exactly my point.”

*/*/*/*/*

Ellie spends the first few days after the story breaks nervously watching over her shoulder wherever she goes.  She puts on a calm front for the boys, especially Tom, but for the first time since they exiled Joe from Broadchurch, she’s worried he’ll try and contact her.

Her worries ease as the story slips from the spotlight but she knows it’s time for her to start keeping tabs on her ex-husband.  She has a sneaking suspicion that she and Hardy will keep making headlines, at least for the forseeable future, and Tom is right:  sooner or later Joe is going to notice and realize her relationship with Hardy is no longer one of antagonistic partners.

If he doesn’t know already.

Paul confirms through his contacts that Joe’s still in Sheffield, working once again as a paramedic, living in a small flat far away from any schools.  Paul promises Ellie that his contacts will let him know if anything changes, and with that, she has to be content.

*/*/*/*/*

They both feel a little lost now the case is finished.

They box up the Livingstone case files and return them to the Sandbrook constabulary while the prosecutors determine the next steps in the case.  Neither Elena nor Cora have confessed, but the various murder weapons and bloody clothes were also found with the body and it’s generally agreed the DNA testing will put all doubts to rest.

Hardy and Miller meet with Bianca and Della and answer their questions as best they are allowed.  The two former friends leave feeling a little better and hopeful the forensic analysis will definitively close the case once and for all.  They all hope that if Archie is proven innocent, he’ll soon be released from prison.

*/*/*/*/*

Hardy and Miller catch a new case on a Tuesday morning about a week later and end up working into the evening hours. They pick up some take-away and go to Hardy’s so as not to disturb Tom and wee Fred, who should be safely sleeping by now, under Daisy’s watchful eyes.

They bicker comfortably as they eat, debating the case and next steps before moving on to the weekend and the kids and Christmas, looming on the horizon.

“Do you think you’ll have Daisy?” Ellie asks as they clear away their meal.  She leans against the kitchen counter as she sips her wine, her thoughtful eyes following his movements as he wipes down the table.

He shrugs as he carries the dishcloth back to the sink.  “Depends on how Tess is doing,” he says, “and whether Daisy wants to spend Christmas with her.”

“Maybe Tess should come here, yah?” Ellie says.  “That way Daisy won’t feel, well, trapped if things don’t go well.”

He grimaces.  “So long as she’s not staying here,” he growls.  “I’m not sure I’ll be ready to see her again, even if it’s still a month away.”

“I don’t blame you,” Ellie says then finishes her wine.  She moves to put the glass in the sink but she miscalculates, catching the base on the edge of the counter.  She yelps, and grabs at it but it’s too late.  It falls into the sink, shattering, and she ends up with a thin slice on her ring finger and a sliver in her middle one.  She yelps again, this time in pain, and before she can really register what happened, Hardy’s beside her, taking her hand in his and quickly assessing the damage.

She grits her teeth against the pain as they peer at her hand.  “Well,” she grates outs, relieved, “that’s not too bad.  No stitches needed.  But I do have a sliver.”

“Right,” he says.  He doesn’t let go of her hand as he rummages in a junk drawer and comes up with tweezers. 

“You’ll have to tell me why you have tweezers in your kitchen junk draw,” she teases as he bends over her hand, peering intently at her finger.

He grunts in reply and she allows herself the luxury of exploring his face with her eyes.

His hair falls messily on his forehead, almost hiding the crease caused by his frown.  The crinkles at the corners of his eyes are just as pronounced as he squints, trying to see the small sliver of glass she can feel poking out of her skin.  His mouth is pressed tightly closed, his bottom lip plumped out in a pout, and she bites back a giggle at his air of intense concentration.

“Ah,” he says softly, and tweezes out the thin piece of glass.  He holds it up to her with an air of satisfaction.

She struggles against another urge to giggle at the boyish pride on his face.  He looks as if he’s spent days wrestling with the problem and she’s finding it rather charming.

She realizes she’s staring because his eyes turn from triumphant to puzzled to heated as they stand, silent, her hand oozing blood in his.  His gaze drops to her mouth.  Heat curls in her stomach and she unconsciously licks her lips.  He practically gulps before his eyes dart back to hers, the heat banked but not extinguished.

“You need a plaster,” he says, his Scottish burr low and husky, sending shivers down her back.

She nods.

“They’re in the loo,” he adds.  “Upstairs.”

She nods again but neither of them move.

She waits, and then he tosses the tweezers in the sink, cups the back of her head, his fingers buried deep in her curls, and pulls her against him, his mouth hungry against hers.  She leans into him, mouth opening, hands gripping his shirt--and she yelps a little as she puts pressure on her cut finger. 

She leans back as far as he’ll let her and says, “I’m getting blood all over your shirt.”

“I have others,” he says.

That deserves only one response, and now she’s the one with cupping the back of his head as he wraps his arms even closer round her, and she revels in feeling...cocooned.  It’s the perfect word, because she feels safe, but also like she’s changing from one state to another.

She moans a little as he moves from her mouth to her ear and shivers as he trails nibbling kisses down her neck.

“I should put a plaster on my fingers,” she groans, arching against him.

He presses several more nibbling kisses against her neck before he reluctantly lifts his head. 

“Right,” he says, but his arms tighten round her and she doesn’t mind, her own arms tightening as she runs her hands over his long, lean back and she’s rewarded with a soft growl as he buries his face in the crook of her neck.

“Then again, I think the bleeding’s already stopped,” she says and he huffs a small chuckle against the sensitive skin of her collarbone, and whatever has been holding her back quietly disappears as she pulls his mouth back to hers.

By the time they come up for air again, he has her pressed up against the only clear wall in the kitchen and she has one leg hooked over his hip, with one hand beneath his shirt and the other tucked into the back of his trousers.  His hands are returning the favour, making her body thrum and it takes all the willpower she has to say, “We should get you a clean shirt.”

He lifts his head from where he’s been exploring the place where her neck meets her shoulder, and blinks in confusion before his lips turn down into another pout.

“Right,” he says with clear disappointment.

“And plasters,” she adds with an encouraging smile.

His expression changes to one of concern.  “Oh, God,” he says, “I forgot,” and quickly takes a step away.  She feels cold once his body isn’t pressed against hers, and bereft as their hands slide away from each other.

“At least we don’t have far to go,” she says hopefully and nods at the bright, thin streaks of red marring the pale blue of his shirt.  “See?  We definitely need to get you a new shirt,” she says.

He gives her a look of disbelief then rolls his eyes.  “Fine, come on upstairs, then,” he growls.

*/*/*/*/*

Ellie grabs her purse on the way, and it takes all of a minute for her to wash off her hand, and for Hardy to apply an antiseptic and plasters. 

“There,” he says with a satisfied air as he smooths the last plaster on to her finger.

She inspects his handiwork, then smiles.  “Your turn,” she says.

“You’ve never been this concerned about my clothese before,” he complains as he leads the way to his bedroom, unbuttoning his shirt as he goes.

“You’ve never been quite this slow on the uptake before,” she says with a laugh as she steps in front of him, puts her hands flat on his now-bare chest and pushes him on to the bed.  He falls back with an ‘oof’, clutching at her waist as she follows him down, kissing him wildly. 

His hands busily undoes her blouse and he stops kissing her long enough to say, “The only condom I have is downstairs in my wallet.”

“I have a box in my purse,” she sighs, her eyes drifting closed as he runs his fingers over her skin.

His hands stop moving and she opens an eye to scowl at him.  He’s watching her with an eyebrow raised in question.

“I’ve had them since we pulled Ginger from the river,” she says with a shrug.  “Isabella took it upon herself to pick them up for us.  Said if there was ever a night we deserved to be shagged into unconsciousness, it was then.”

His jaw drops, his eyes go wide, and his cheeks turn a deep, dark red as she struggles to keep a straight face and fails.

“And I got a sedative instead?” he squeaks.

She laughs, loud and joyous, and he grins as he pulls her down to him.

*/*/*/*/*

He’s more playful than Ellie would have expected, and even their awkward moments make them both laugh and when it’s over, she relaxes against him and realizes she’s something she thought she’d never be again:  _happy_.

*/*/*/*/*

She reluctantly slips out from beside a seductively warm and sleepily protesting Hardy.  She washes and dresses, then kneels beside the bed to tell him to go back to sleep and she’ll see him at her place in the morning for their regular Wednesday breakfast.

She’s not surprised when he drags himself out of bed, pulls on pajama bottoms and shuffles after her, still half-asleep, to the back door. 

“Good-night, Miller, love you,” he says with a yawn before he kisses her slowly, thoroughly, and waits in the doorway until she closes the garden gate behind her.

Her tears don’t begin until she’s a few steps away and then she cries all the way across the common.  She cries because she wasn’t expecting to hear those words from him or how she felt when she heard them.  She also cries because she didn’t say them back and because she doesn’t know if she’s ready to say them.

She doesn’t know if she’ll _ever_ be ready to say them, or mean them the same way she’d meant them with Joe.

Leave it to Hardy to complicate things, she thinks wryly as she opens her own back gate.  Not that she’s angry about it--she feels a warm glow just remembering his words--she just hopes he can give her more time.

She quietly creeps in the back door and hastily wipes the moisture from her cheeks when Daisy sleepily calls her name from the living room.

Ellie clears her throat and hopes she sounds normal as she says, “Yah, it’s me.  Go back to sleep, Daisy.”

A light switches on in the living room and Ellie sighs, thinking the girl is too much like her father sometimes.  She pokes her head in the room, a determined smile on her face.

“See?  Just me,” she says.

Daisy squints up at her, eyes still adjusting to the light, then says, “Why are you crying?”

Ellie’s smile becomes embarrassed.  “Because I’m happy,” she says, and it’s true.  She’s just also confused.

“Dad didn’t make a muck of things, then?” Daisy says with a yawn.

Ellie frowns.  “What?”

“I saw the light go on in his bedroom,” she says and gives Ellie a slightly evil grin.

Ellie closes her eyes and prays for...she’s not sure what she prays for: patience or peace or just for the ground to open up and swallow her whole right now.

She opens her eyes and looks at the still-grinning teenager and shakes her head.

“How about we don’t tell your dad that little tidbit, yah?”

Daisy giggles sleepily.  “Yah, okay,” she says and turns off the light.  “Good-night, Ellie.”

“Good-night, Daisy,” Ellie says and finds herself chuckling as she makes her way upstairs.

*/*/*/*/*

The next morning is blessedly normal, although they linger over their morning kiss a little longer than usual.  They’re quickly caught up in the whirlwind of making Wednesday breakfast for three kids and getting everyone off to school or the child-minder’s or work.

The case they’d caught is quickly solved, and then they’re at loose ends--again--in terms of work. 

They keep busy by reviewing the last of the case files sent in by Hardy’s fans--or the general public, as Hardy insists they call them--and send enquiries through Elaine about the feasibility of those police territories re-investigating the cases that seem most promising.  They also keep busy investigating the minor crimes that cross their desks.

Outside of work, Ellie stumbles through an awkward conversation with Hardy about how she quite liked him saying he loved her, really, but she’s not ready to say it to him. 

He hears her out with an expression of sour disbelief then says, dryly, “It’s not a requirement, Miller.”

That sparks a wee lovers quarrel, followed by their first round of make-up sex, after which they agree Hardy won’t inundate her with words of love (“Really?  That worried you?  Have you _met_ me, Miller?”) and she wouldn’t feel pressured to say them back, and they’d both relax and calm the hell down about it all.

With that tricky conversation behind them, they begin the sometimes complicated task of carving out more private time for each other in between their children’s needs, their friends, and the routine they’d established over the last few months.

Then, not quite three weeks after Ginger’s confession, Rebecca and Isabella arrive in Broadchurch and with Elaine, call Hardy and Miller to a meeting.

The two CSs lay out their proposal and when they’re finished, Hardy and Miller sit in silence for a few moments.

Miller finally says, “Cold case detectives?”

Elaine nods.  “You’ll start with the cases you’ve already received from the public and we’ve received agreement from the other territories for you to start working on them.  We’ve also sent the proposal to the other CSs in the area, and they love the idea, especially,” her voice turns dry, “when they learned they wouldn’t need to pay your salaries.  You’ll still work on local crimes if we’re overloaded, but your main role will be to work on cold cases sent by police territories who don’t have a cold case squad of their own.”

Hardy scowls at Rebecca and Isabella.  “Where do you two come in?” he asks suspiciously.

“I want to help fund the unit,” Rebecca says calmly.  “We have five unsolved homicides in my territory that I’d like to get sorted, if possible.  Isabella’s going to help with the PR, public notices asking for witnesses and so forth, and will also help you manage--and respond to!--your fan mail.”

Hardy flushes.  “That’s slowed considerably,” he mutters.

Isabella smirks.  “For now.  _Close to Home_ wants to profile the Livingstone case and the two of you.”

Hardy almost growls, Miller frowns, and the others laugh.

“Like it or not, Hardy, you’re a bit of a celebrity now, and Ellie will be, too, if _Close to Home_ has their way,” Isabella says.  “You keep solving cases like this one, you’re only going to be profiled more and more.”

He looks hunted.

“I doubt you’ll ever be as popular as you were,” Isabella continues, “but setting up a website for people to send you messages and tips on cases you’re investigating isn’t a bad thing.”

He wearily rubs his forehead.  “Do I have a choice?”

“Not really, no,” says Elaine.  “It’s also time you decided what you’re doing with the money people have sent you so you can get it out of our lock-up.”

He looks at Elaine’s calm face.

“You already have an idea about that, too, don’t you,” he says.

Isabella is the one who responds.  “Choose a charity--or several--and donate it.  We’ll put the information on the site along with donation links as well.”  She glances from one to the other.  “Maybe the charity Beth Latimer set up in honour of her son?”

Hardy and Miller exchange a glance and he gives a small shrug.

Rebecca’s eyes twinkle as she grins at them.  “You’re a celebrity, Hardy, you and Ellie both.”

“Notorious is more like it,” Ellie mutters.

“Regardless, you’re on the public’s radar at the moment.  You just need to decide how you want to leverage your fifteen minutes of fame.”

*/*/*/*/*

In the end, they agree to everything.

“How much of your decision was influenced by the drinks you had with Rebecca last night?” Hardy asks with a suspicious scowl.

Ellie grins and says, “I guess you’ll never know,” and kisses him.

*/*/*/*/*


	19. Epilogue - Six Months Later

_{{A bland, well-groomed man of indeterminate age stands in front of a large screen emblazoned with the words Close to Home.}}_

“God, turn it off!”

“You sure you don’t want to watch it?” Ellie asks with a teasing grin.

“Oh, God, no!” Hardy scowls with disgust.  “I still can’t believe Isabella and the others managed to force me into it again!”

“Good publicity for the charities,” Ellie says, “and you looked very posh in that designer suit they wrestled you into.”

He rolls his eyes so hard she almost hears them and she laughs.

“Come on, stop being such a grump!”

“Change the channel, Miller,” he growls.

_{{Jeffery:  Good evening, I’m Collin Jeffery._

_Francesca Livingstone.  A young woman who disappears after a night drinking with friends.  Two years later, one of those friends confesses to her murder and goes to prison._

_This is not that story._

_Instead, the story you’re about to see is about a case not cold, but solved, and two suddenly famous detectives together again.  What they discover changes everything.}}_

*/*/*/*/*

_{{Grace Heath <voice over; on screen is footage of Archie Reynolds leaving prison>:  Sometimes out of tragedy, something beautiful grows.  Sometimes it’s just a small measure of justice.}}_

Archie Reynolds is quietly released from prison and meeting him at the doors are Bianca and Della--and Dottie Livingstone. 

They go to Dottie’s, where they talk long into the night about the past, the good times and the bad, about Frankie and the others, about what Frankie had planned and what Archie had agreed to do.  They struggle to understand, to find some truth, some beauty, in the ashes of the past.

In the end, they all cry and Dottie tells Archie she forgives him.  She tells him spending nine years in prison for something he only _thought_ about doing is more than enough time for anybody.

Archie eventually moves to Leeds and stays with Della until he finds a job and a flat of his own.  Bianca applies for a transfer and hopes to join them soon.  They all keep in regular contact with Dottie.

Sometimes the only thing left to do is cling together.

*/*/*/*/*

_{{Grace Heath <voice over cont’d; on screen is a long distance shot of Ellie as she comes out of the room she’d been given as a dressing room.  She looks round, then pauses as another door opens and Hardy steps out in to the hall and looks the other way at first.>:  Sometimes it’s friendships forged under the most trying of circumstances.  And sometimes...}}_

Ellie grins as Hardy looks round, trying to determine which way to go.  He’s been coaxed into a designer suit that fits his slender form like a glove.  His tie is perfectly straight, his beard trimmed and his hair is slicked back and smooth, high off his forehead.

He looks about as comfortable as a cat stepping foot on a stove that had once burned it.

His eyes warm when he sees her, though, and a genuine smile curves his lips.  She doesn’t think she’s ever going to get used to the way his smile--when he _does_ smile--lights up his entire being.

“Well, they did a good job with you, Miller,” he says.

She smiles and swirls round to show off the lovely print dress Grace Heath--much warmer in person than she seems on the air--had found for her.  She’s not sure why the show has gone to such trouble, but it’s a beautiful dress and she feels beautiful in it, and she preens for a moment beneath Hardy’s appreciative gaze.

“They did a good job on you, too, Hardy,” she says, moving closer to fuss with his tie and the lapels of his suit.  “Look at you, all poshed up.”

He rolls his eyes.  “Let’s just get this over with,” he growls.

“Na, na, just a minute.”  She surveys him with a critical air and reluctantly decides against dragging him in to her dressing room for a quick snog.  The make-up and hair people would never forgive them.  She settles for reaching up and giving his hair a good tussle.  When she’s done, his hair is hanging in his eyes and sticking up in tufts and she nods.  “That’s better.”

“Miller--”

“Oh, stop!  You love me and you know it!”

“Oh, aye, I do, but I’m beginning to regret it!”

She gives him a quick peck on the lips.  “No, you’re not.”

He tugs her close and smiles down at her.  “No, I’m not.”

_{{Grace Heath <voice over as the scene freezes on Ellie and Hardy standing close, smiling at each other>  ...sometimes it’s love, found in the unlikeliest of places.}}_

*/*/*/*/*


	20. Author's Notes

Oh, this fic, this fic, this fic...Where to start....

Original Scope of This Fic:

\- this fic was supposed to be a relatively short little one-shot about Hardy becoming a media darling and ending with him surrounded by fan mail and wondering what the hell happened.  Then Dottie appeared with the "I don't want an autograph!  I want to hire you!"  lines and the rest, as they say, is history...or a ~68K word fic...whichever.  

Inspiration:

Part of the inspiration for this story was some idle wondering about the life Hardy had lost after the Sandbrook case fell apart.  He wasn't always the grumpy misanthrope we meet in series 1 of Broadchurch.  He had people he could call on for favours (his doctor and Alistair Murray in series 1; What-is-the-Point-of-You-Craig in series 2), he and Tess had friends, he was part of a community, he had enemies--he had a _LIFE_ and everything that entails.

Part of the inspiration for this story was to explore some of those aspects.  Ellie was in such a bad place in series 2, and she took her anger and grief out on Hardy and, in my opinion, defined him as the grumpy sod/emotionless misanthrope and that was where he was going to stay, so help her God - LOL.  

Another piece of inspiration was to combine these two elements together:  Ellie has Hardy in a set little category based on the person she knows.  What would happen if she sees him back in his previous life?  Ellie wasn't the only one who'd lost everything because of the actions of others, but she was in no emotional shape to recognize or understand that in either series 1 or 2.

Struggles and Headaches:

\- I struggled a lot with the timing of events, especially when it came to Ellie being ready to start a relationship with Hardy.  My head!canon is pretty firmly entrenched that Hardy's in love with Ellie at the start of series 2 (and he knows it by the end of series 1), while Ellie (my poor baby) is miles and miles (like, the distance to Mars miles) away from even thinking/feeling like that about any one, let alone a grumpy wanker like Hardy, for God's sake!

\- Phoenix Rising takes place over a span of ~6-12 months from the end of series 2.  This made it a real struggle for me to get Ellie to an emotional space where she could/would fall for Hardy and admit she's fallen for him.  In my head!canon, it's just too soon for her to do that but I'd set the fic up and had to see it through.  *pulls at hair*  I could write a really long meta arguing both sides (i.e., it's too soon for her to trust any man again vs she already trusts Hardy without question (as he trusts her)(and that's just so damn adorable)) but that's too long even for this Author Note!  :)

The Case:

\- I thought it would be interesting to explore a case where the victim was less than sympathetic.  As I've noted before (to the point of being disgustingly repetitive), I watch a lot of true crime documentaries.  And it never fails that the people remembering the victim always say:  "they were wonderful people"; "kindest person you'd ever meet"; "sweet and kind and would give you the shirt of your back"; "not an enemy in the world", and I just started wondering what it would be like to watch a true crime documentary where the victim's family said, "they were borderline psychopathic; we hated each other--but that doesn't mean they deserved to die!"

 

Shout-Out:

\- While not really an influence or inspiration, I can't ignore the only other cold case detective fic I currently know about:  RexAlexander's Where We Begin.  While I didn't get the idea from her fic, it was simultaneous (sort of) inspiration.  I had started another fic about Hardy/Miller as cold case detectives (which subsequently withered on the vine).  It was already withering when I read a few chapters of Where We Begin; it just withered faster after that!  Because Phoenix Rising is really about a cold case (a closed case, actually, but still...), I thought I should give Where We Begin a shout-out...and now maybe I can finish reading it!!

Which brings me to: 

I HOPE I CAN READ OTHER FICS NOW!!  Some of you will know that I don’t read other fics in the fandom when I’m writing a multi-chapter story (it messes with my head!canon too much)(plus I get too envious of other people's talent--*pouts*).  I’ve finally finished this one, and I’m feeling the urge to get back to my original novels (I’m going to publish this year come hell or high water) plus the only Broadchurch stories I have brewing in the back of my mind at the moment are a cross-over with Remington Steele and a follow-on to one of my previous one-shots.  One’s going to be short, and the other one isn’t going to be as invested in canon so I should be safe to delve into Broadfic as a reader now.  ;D

Thanks for coming along for the ride on this one--and sticking with it till the end!  I’m going to miss this story and, of course, Hardy and Miller, my poor broken-hearted babies...{{hugs them tight}}.

 

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